


this is how we met.

by thedamnstars



Category: Not Another Happy Ending (2013), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Canon Sibling Death (Frerin), Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Parent Death, Stress Baking, Writer's Block, editor!Thorin, is it crack yet?, writer!Bilbo, writers au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:30:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5830963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedamnstars/pseuds/thedamnstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins is the best selling author of “Happy Ending” (originally titled “The Impiety of My Mother's Love” ... but let's not get into that). He's got a great apartment, a great best friend, and an absolute prick for an editor. But just one more book, and he's out of his contract — and Thorin Oakenshield is out of his life. The only problem is… he's got no idea how it's going to end.</p><p>Thorin Oakenshield is an independent editor at the end of his rope. His publishing company is on the brink of bankruptcy, his father is ill, and his sister is a pain in the ass. He needs that stubborn little shit’s book to succeed. At any cost. </p><p>Not Another Happy Ending AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! I'm really excited about this fic. I've been wanting to write this for a while and I'm finally feeling up for it after 3 months of procrastination.  
> If you haven't watched the movie Not Another Happy Ending (on which this fic is based) I suggest you do, it's very fluffy and very cute and the co-stars are very attractive. It's not necessary to have seen the movie to read this fic tho, FYI.  
> Okay, enjoy! :)

 

_**To my da, who loved fully.** _

_**And to my mum.** _  
_**Who loved recklessly.** _

_**-Bilbo Baggins, novelist** _

 

* * *

 

_Dear Mr. Baggins,  
We are returning your draft novel, "The Impiety of My Mother's Love". I am sorry to tell you it has not been successful in selection for publication._

_With thanks,_

_Tauriel Eldar_  
_Acquisitions Editor, Blade and Branch Publishing_  
_t.eldar@bladeandbranch.scot_  
_Glasgow - London - Paris - New York_

The letter in Bilbo’s hand had begun to wrinkle at the edge, where he held on a bit too tight, disappointed by its contents though he knew he shouldn't be. The steady pattern of raindrops against his window had all but turned into a wall of sound, indistinguishable from the static of his wistful thoughts.

His precedent for failure had so far been quite reliable. He shouldn't have been surprised, and yet, somehow, he was.

 _That made twenty-eight,_ Bilbo thought, stabbing another pin through the iconic green and silver logo, adding yet again to The Board of Pain (a rather melodramatic name, but entirely appropriate if you asked him). He put the letter from _Blade and Branch_ beside his rejection from _White City,_ their masthead of a towering citadel glaring at him as he reread the scathing words beneath:

_While there were some passages I enjoyed, unfortunately I found most of the book dull and poorly written. Perhaps you should try to write from your own experience? Contact my office should you need your manuscript returned._

_Condescending arsehole._ Bilbo made a baleful face at the words, hoping the editor who'd written it could feel his animosity all the way up in his fancy glass office.

And that was only two of twenty-eight. He'd received _twenty-eight_ rejections from publishing houses up and down the British Isles, _Blade and Branch_ being his top choice. None would have him.

His mum would have told him to keep sending his manuscript to more publishers — to the same publishers, even. _Make 'em read it so many times that they learn to love it!_ she would have said. He could hear her voice, her posh accent tinged by that insatiable spirit. And her boisterous laughter, light and clear and unafraid.

She would have never taken no for an answer, she was determined like that. And given the fact that Bilbo was the child of Belladonna Took, he was nothing if not determined.

Now all that was left to do was wait.

For want of something to do, Bilbo made tea, and sat down at his desk to check his email for the third time that morning. He had a scheduled meeting in town, but when he checked his watch it was only half past seven, and he didn't have to be there for another hour.

His inbox, sad and empty except for the messages he'd been exchanging with a prospective lit agent, showed no sign of activity. The agent's messages were stale and perfunctory — not looking good on Bilbo's end. He would have printed out the short string of messages and tacked those too onto The Board, but that seemed a bit too pathetic, even for him. Bofur liked to call him Chronically Masochistic. He was beginning to see it now.

His working relationships with most literary agents were strained to say the least — he didn't like how smarmy most of them acted. But his unsolicited manuscript was gaining no traction with publishers, and he was beginning to feel restless in this idleness.

He sipped is tea. Idleness. It clawed at him.

Sometimes, sitting in this flat, listening to the steady tick of his watch and waiting for the unflaggingly negative replies from editors to end, he felt the urge to scratch at his skin, to get underneath and to finally reach the itch he could never sate. It was unending really, the itch. The idleness. He needed something to do. Writing had calmed him, but it seemed like he'd finished his novel ages ago, and all this waiting was taking its toll.

He had considered for a while to begin a new novel, but decided against it. Working on something new would stagnate progress in publishing his current manuscript. So no, he didn't want to start on another _(Only to have that one rejected as well)_.

But this tedium of sipping tea and watching the second hand tick — it was driving him mad. Bilbo snuffled his nose. Misting rain hit the windows. He considered baking, but he had nothing in.

He sipped his tea and looked at his watch. It was 7:45. _Good enough_ , he thought, chugging the last of his mug ( _No point in letting it go to waste.._.), and got up to fetch his umbrella.

By the time Bilbo sped down the fifteen steps to leave his flat and locked the door behind him, the rain had stopped, and his umbrella was useless. He took that as a good omen and began to walk down the path, through the West End, to his destination only a few blocks from home.

 

 

Thorin was eating breakfast and destroying a manuscript. And it really wasn't his problem, whether or not anyone else thought his dietary habits were strange. Or sanitary.

"Uncle you can't just dip the toast into the jar," Fili said, dropping his car keys and leaning across the front of Thorin's desk to reach for his plate. Thorin slapped his hand away.

"Dwalin, school! _"_ he yelled up the stairs behind him, ignoring his nephew. He took another bite of his toast and mayo and crossed out large passages on the page before him, barely making any written corrections besides _shite._ and _you want your name associated with the words ‘mentally penetrated’??_

"Does that even taste good?" Kili asked, genuinely interested, as he stepped across the office to steal Thorin's toast and shove it in the glass jar. Thorin sighed, but allowed him to continue, as he heard Dwalin's heavy footfalls coming down the stairs.

Dwalin's pajama bottoms were missing, clad only in a day old tee shirt and pants, both rumpled from sleeping on Thorin’s equally ratty couch. He had a half-empty beer bottle in his hand. He reeked of death.

"You look like shit." Kili said, toast in his mouth and crumbs sticking to the stubble he was failing to pass off as a beard, trying to reach for the boxed Yoohoo on Thorin's desk. Thorin grabbed it before Kili could, taking large sips just to spite his nephew.

"You better hurry up if you want that lift." Fili tutted in Dwalin's direction.

"Shut it," Dwalin said, shuffling past them, heading for the washroom down the hall.

Thorin shuffled the pages of the manuscript, organizing them, then dumped it off the side of his desk and into the bin.

 

  
The publishing house was small but imposing when Bilbo found it, their logo of a hand-drawn firedrake decorating the solid black facade of the building. Below, in classically sharp white lettering, read _Khazâd Books_.

Bilbo's hand travelled up to his collar, unconsciously looking to correct the necktie that wasn't there, fingers searching for something to do. He couldn't stop the flutter of anxiety that clenched at his stomach. He held tighter onto the paper in his hand, double checking the address he'd written down, though there was no need to.

The front door (around the _back_ of the building, which had taken Bilbo ten whole minutes to find) was locked, and there was no bell to ring. There were no windows to look through, save an arch shaped module at the very top, which of course, he was too short to see through without taking the humiliating pains of standing on his toes. Which he did not do.

He knocked, tentatively at first, then stretched to look through the windowpane. All he could see was the end of an empty hallway, plaster walls and exposed brick. He knocked again, this time louder. And heard nothing in response but a bang and a crash, followed by the door being thrown open and two rather harried looking young men — younger than Bilbo himself (though in possession of much more facial hair than Bilbo would ever hope to grow) — staring back at him, cheeks flushed and mouths turned up at the corners as if they had just shared a long and fulfilling laugh.

There was an awkward beat in which neither party said anything, until the elder of the two boys, fairer in complexion, raised an eyebrow and said, “Yes?”

Bilbo blanched.

"Khazâd Books?" he asked, looking a bit shaken as he glanced back to the paper in his hands, searching for the name, "Thorin Oakenshield?"

“Come in. Down the hall,” The Younger sighed, and the pair of them were off running down the hall again, continuing on in the merriment which Bilbo had seemingly interrupted by knocking on their door.

He followed behind, glancing at the walls beside him, exposed brick interspersed by neatly hung cover art, each in their own clean blue frame. Bilbo quite liked most of those books. Morning light was coming in through a stream of windows, close to the ceiling above him, reflecting off the glass shielding the posters and hitting the opposite wall. It was all very _reclaimed_ in Bilbo’s limited opinion of interior design. A lot of exposed piping and loft style lighting. _Trendy_.

A phone rang somewhere down the hallway, and the wall turned into a glass window as Bilbo kept walking. On the other side of the divide was a cluttered looking office, filled with strewn about mock-ups and loose sheets of paper. There was a man in the office yelling for the phone to be picked up.

He was curled over a stack of files and knickknacks that had been knocked over, leaning to pick them up from the floor. There was a ruined plate of toast among the mess. Must have been the crash Bilbo had heard.

The phone rang again and he groaned, reaching for the phone at the edge of his desk. “ _Oakenshield_ ,” he answered.

 _So that's Thorin Oakenshield_ , Bilbo thought. Thorin kneeled down again to reach for his papers, but the phone cord wasn't quite long enough, and he ended up straining to reach for the files, even with his long limbs. Bilbo had half a mind to go in and help him, but watching the struggle was quite amusing.

Thorin gave up on the mess and straightened up, still not having noticed Bilbo watching him, and began speaking rapid fire into the headset. It was a language Bilbo didn't know — Russian, maybe. There was a thick line forming between Thorin Oakenshield’s dark brow.

“What's your name?”

Bilbo jumped, turning quickly to see that The Younger had poked his head around the corner of the hallway, and was staring very intently at Bilbo.

“Uh— Bilbo Baggins,” he said, "I wrote _The Impiety of My Mother's Love_?" and The Younger nodded, only to slink back from whence he came. When he turned back to the man on the phone, it suddenly felt a bit like he was watching a fish through glass, and Bilbo looked away, only to manage one step farther down the corridor before bumping into a rather large chest. Looking up, Bilbo saw the face of a man confused, barely awake himself, stepping out of a bathroom connected to the hall. Looking down, the man wasn't wearing any trousers.

“Who are you?” he mumbled, eyeballing Bilbo. He looked rough. The deep baritone hummed through his whole being; this mixed with his mostly bald head and wall-like body was quite stalwart, Bilbo thought. Minus the bottom half, with no trousers.

“Bilbo Boggins,” The Younger answered, appearing again, this time with The Fairer at his side. They reminded Bilbo of Night and Day respectively, with their black and blond hair, opposite yet entwined. They moved together, completing the other.

“Baggins, actually,” Bilbo corrected, trying to not look down. And The Wall just huffed, before continuing on down the hallway, towards the now zealous yelling and screaming in Thorin Oakenshield’s office. No trousers.

Bilbo glanced at his watch. It was only 8:15.

The reception office at the end of the hall was equally as messy as Thorin Oakenshield’s. It seemed to get progressively more untidy as Bilbo walked farther into the publishing house, but the smell of books and old pages was always a familiar comfort.

Clearly the editor didn't mind leaving his mess around, stacks on stacks of his files and printouts and press releases covering the short coffee table, and the side table, and every other available surface. Bilbo sat down on the overstuffed couch, staring out the window and listened to Thorin’s muffled argument through the wall, still not understanding a word of it.

The boys were laughing to themselves, sitting on the reception desk, huddled up like schoolboys, “Ori’ll leave, I'm betting on it. After he's published and wins his awards he's running out of here.”

“Give him a bit more credit than that, he's loyal.”

“If he stays it's not for Uncle’s attitude.”

“It's for Dwalin’s arms.”

They both crack up, leaning into each other like they'd done it all their lives. The Younger looked over to Bilbo with wide eyes, “Kili,” he said.

“What?” Bilbo gaped.

“Kili,” he repeats, “at your service.”

“And Fili.” The Fairer added.

“Oh,” he said with a smile and a nod, introducing himself again, “Bilbo Baggins, at yours. Do you work here? Assistants or something?”

“Interns,” Fili said. “Mum’s idea.”

Bilbo just nodded, realizing the boys were brothers. He looks down at the pile of files on the coffee table. Keeping them flat, being used as a _paperweight_ was Thorin’s Young European Publisher of the Year Award. His eyes went wide and he reached to touch the cool metal, extremely impressed by the indie house.

There's a loud yell from Thorin down the hall, and the headset could be heard smashing into the receiver. Bilbo jumped, the award flying, then crashing with a loud echoing bang on the floor.

“Bilbo Boggins?” he heard behind him, in Thorin Oakenshield’s deeply accented brogue, origin still undefinable to Bilbo’s ears, “What the hell are you doing?”

Bilbo slided to the floor in order to pick up the award, “I was just touching it — I mean. Not touching it, that makes me seem like a pervert.” _Best stop talking now_. He glanced down at the words embossed in the gold, running his fingers over the letters, “Young European Publisher of the Year _Runner-Up_ , wow that’s really impressive.”

He placed the award very carefully back atop the files, Fili and Kili’s laughter stifled behind him. Thorin looked less than impressed. “I got a plaque for conkers when I was in primary school, first place…” He looks down at his watch, “We had an 8:30?”

Thorin squinted his eyes, something between confused and disturbed, “Right. Follow me,” he said. And walked back into his office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get this up fast, so this is Part I of Chapter 1
> 
> Part II coming soon :)


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 - Part II  
> The second half of the prologue, and this part is much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this fic comes from the song How We Met (Cherry Pie) by TeenCanteen from the movie soundtrack for Not Another Happy Ending. There is no studio version available online, but you can watch a jam session the girls did on a radio show here: http://youtu.be/7rUKAb-jD14 
> 
> Also, the average length of time for an offer from a publisher to the actual contracts being drawn up can be close to 2 months. In the interest of expediency, I took a bit of artistic license and imagined Thorin might have had a mock contract already written. It also would have taken Thorin about a month or more to solo edit Bilbo’s manuscript, even if he's only working on a few other projects and has Dwalin & his nephews to help him.

Thorin led Boggins back to his office, finally picking up the files (which Kili had knocked over in his enthusiastic quest for his uncle’s questionable breakfast), searching in the stack of papers for a publication contract. “So Mr. Boggins,” he said without turning around.

“Baggins.”

“What?” Thorin said, looking over his shoulder at Boggins, who had sat down in one of Thorin’s armchairs.

“Bilbo _Baggins_ ,” the little thing said again.

“Right, yeah—” he walked around his desk and found the contract hidden between two large manuscripts, thumbing through the pages that were indeed dotted with the last name ‘ _Baggins_ ’.

“I read your novel,” Thorin said, leaning back to sit on the lip of his desk, “It needs work. _A lot_ of work. Needs a new title and reads like a grocery list at times, but you're good and it has potential so I've decided to publish it.

“I'm offering you a two book deal, I've drawn up— what are you doing?”

Bilbo was breathing heavily and fanning himself with one free hand, the other clutching at the arm of Thorin’s chair, “Ah nothing,” color rising in his cheeks, “just feel a bit faint, continue —”

“I've written up a mock contr—”

“It's just been so long you see,” Bilbo interrupted, “So many rejections, I thought I would run out of push pins.” Thorin thought Baggins would start crying.

“Push pins?”

_Did he want to know? (Sadistic acupuncture?)_

“For my board.”

“Board?” Thorin raised an eyebrow.

“Of rejection letters. I call it my _Board of Pain._ ” Bilbo whispered like it was something sinister.

And Thorin made that face again, the one he'd made when Baggins was crawling about on the floor of his waiting area, dropping Thorin’s things and babbling about conkers and perverts. Something between confused and disturbed.

“ _Okay_ ,” he said a bit more like a question than a statement, looking around for the box of tissues in case Baggins erupted in tears. That did happen occasionally.

“Funny, everyone I tell has that same reaction. Did you know,” Bilbo said, pointing a finger in no particular direction, “that the average number of rejections for an unpublished writer is _ninety_!”

“I did know that.” _It was his job to know that._

“Really does a number on your self-esteem,” Bilbo laughed, but I came out a bit watery, his eyes filling a bit. Then he smiled, so bright and ridiculous, really, that Thorin didn't bother to look away.

Finally dressed properly and probably already late for work, Dwalin walked into the office, messenger bag over his shoulder and holding out Thorin's missing tissue box for Bilbo to take.

Dwalin seemed to have a propensity for small bookish things in knitwear, going by his current streak of mooning after all of Thorin's novelists fitting that niche. And what a very _specific_ niche it was. It made Thorin want to laugh and roll his eyes at the same time, watching him offer Bilbo Baggins a tissue to dry his runny nose.

“I'm off then,” he said to Thorin, still sluggish, in need of his daily caffeine injection. “Bloody English revision with my Year Tens today, fucking monsters.”

Bilbo took a tissue slowly, looking confused at Dwalin’s dress shirt and tie, decidedly avoiding his trousers.

“They like to chase me with hockey sticks during P.E.,” Dwalin explained.

“Ah.” Baggins replied, like it made the most sense in the world.

“Well you better hurry before the boys leave without you,” Thorin crossed his arms and pointed to the hallway, at Fili tapping the glass divide with his car keys, and Kili giggling over his shoulder like a child.

“ _Shit_.” Dwalin said, dropping the tissues and running after them.

Thorin snorted, and turned back to see Baggins watching him, a small, tugging smile on his lips.

 

  
When Bilbo got home, mock contracts in hand, the first person he phoned was Bofur.

“ _It's just, you know, I've heard some things_ ,” Bof said over the line, the white noise of his office assistants in the background.

Bilbo spread jam on toast, licking his sticky fingers and paused to say, “What things?”

“ _Things. About Thorin, and his attitude,_ ” there was a clunky sliding sound, like Bofur was closing his window (the one that always stuck in its track during hot summers), “ _Most writers he sign don't last. He's a good editor, he publishes good books, but he's an unremittable bastard. Not that you won't last, you’re—_

Bilbo made a high interjectory noise, putting the butter knife in the sink and taking his toast into the sitting room, “I don't know, he doesn't seem that bad. A bit cranky but…”

“ _But?_ ”

“But nothing.”

“ _No no, you said but. But what? Do you_ fancy _him?_ ” Bilbo could tell Bof was wiggling his eyebrows across the line, “ _Well he is fit, I'll give you that. In a lumpy book nerd kind of way._ ”

“Lumpy?”

“ _That's not a no._ ”

“ _Yes_ it is a no, I barely even know him. I met him once. We're not even on a first name basis.”

“ _You don't need to be on first-name basis with someone to be on cock-touching basis with someone —_ ”

“ _Bof_!”

“ _I tell it like it is, darlin._ ”

“Doesn’t mean I want to hear it,” he groused, sitting back on the sofa and biting into his toast, mobile balanced on his shoulder.

Bofur’s thick laugh hummed in Bilbo’s ear, “ _But seriously Bilbo, congratulations. I'm so happy for you._ ”

“Thanks, Bof.” And he would swear Bofur could hear his smile.

 

 

 

i.

The next month, ungodly early on a wet Tuesday morning, Bilbo met Thorin at a coffee house down the road from _Khazâd_. His editor was already there by the time he arrived, and Bilbo could see him sitting at a high bar behind the rain streaked window.

When Bilbo passed by, Thorin looked up and they met each other's gaze through the glass. Bilbo raised his hand, waving warmly, as they shared a small greeting smile. He entered the shop and went straight over to the counter for a strong coffee; he was in desperate need of his wake-me-up, having forgone morning tea in order to get there on time.

Bilbo tried not to stare as he waited on the slow moving line; tried occasionally flicking his gaze around the woodsy decor of the coffee house, their strong oak tables and exposed piping (which seemed to eerily match the aesthetic of the _Khazâd_ offices, maybe why Thorin liked it here so much), but his eyes kept drifting back to the bar and the rain-streaked window and to Thorin Oakenshield drinking his coffee.

Bilbo's manuscript was in front of him. There was a plate of crumbs pushed off to one side. And Thorin himself was typing away on his mobile, clearly invested in whatever it was he was working on, because a pensive little line formed between his brows and he frowned.

Bilbo ordered his large strong tooth-numbingly sweet coffee and walked off to the side of the counter to wait for it. From this side of the cafe, close to the back wall, he had ample view of Thorin working (if Bilbo had so desired to watch him) (which he of course did not take advantage of).

Thorin's eyes darkened and his jaw clenched. His fingers moved faster across the keyboard and Bilbo feared he might break the mobile in half from clenching so hard around it. Fed up with the whole affair, Thorin dropped his phone face down, and pulled Bilbo’s manuscript closer across the bar with a deep sigh, beginning to review the passage he had opened. His cheeks looked flushed.

Reading the words of Bilbo’s opening chapter, Thorin tapped a pen against his red-bitten lips. The manuscript was littered with his Post-It's, small comments in the margins.

There was an actual _respectable_ editor waiting for him. And Thorin _actually_ wanted to publish him. The novelty of that still hadn't worn off yet. Published. Finally.

He tried to repress a smile.

A loud squeal from the milk steamer made Bilbo jump, and he realized that he was staring again.

Across the cafe, Bilbo watched that same old pensive line appear between Thorin's eyebrows again as he read — the same terrible one that had formed while glaring at his mobile screen — and something in Bilbo’s gut lurched terribly. His order was called and when he reached out to take the coffee, found that his fingers were shaking.

And suddenly he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Thorin to snap the manuscript closed, and throw it in the garbage, and to laugh in Bilbo’s face because _he actually thought he was good enough to be published? Ha!_

But then the sound of his mother’s voice rang out saying, _no baby, not this again._ Bilbo knew he was good. He did. But a career full of degradation and being pulled through the mud by arsehole editors laughing at him for their own enjoyment had most definitely made an impression.

How was this his life? How had he deserved this? An accomplished, awarded, _attractive_ publisher waiting for him. Wait. What?

But he had started walking with his coffee in hand and was getting closer and oh god, Thorin Oakenshield looked _stupidly attractive_ in casual wear — begrudgingly agreeing with Bofur that he did indeed like Thorin’s nerdy lumpiness. With that ratty hat covering his dark hair and his reading glasses and his _stubble_ , it was a crime honestly, that someone should look so attractive seemingly without trying to. And that's a stupid thought. _Stop thinking that._ He's gotten closer now, almost to the bar against the wall, and Bilbo can't help but notice how Thorin looked like he fit right in, in the indie cafe, snug in his thick jumper. He looked a sheep among flock, just another hipster among many. And he looked so good.

Bilbo moved to the bar beside Thorin, putting down his ceramic cup with a bit too much feigned aplomb, and probably trying to organize his stationary a bit too thoroughly.

He kept looking up to meet Thorin's gaze, caught between smiling like an idiot and organizing his things. Thorin looked like he was trying not to smile, or laugh, or show any sign of amusement at Bilbo's awkwardness but there was a brightness in his blue eyes that Bilbo quite liked.

The light patter of rain continued to hit the window beside them, the glass fogging up a bit on this side of the warm cafe. Bilbo watched a drop cling to the window outside, small and singular, until gravity pulled it down to meet with another rivulet and they fell away out of sight. He picked up his hot coffee to take a sip.

In the corner of his eye, one of Bilbo's pens was out of place and he moved to straighten it. His fingers were still trembling.

Thorin reached out to steady him, the large hand calming on his arm. “Bilbo, you don't need to be nervous.”

Bilbo put his coffee down with a scoff, “What? No, I'm not nervous.” _Lie_.

“No?” and Thorin had to smile at that.

“No, no I'm fine… Okay maybe a little nervous. It's just,” he smiled back weakly, “Usually I like to prepare myself for editing. Avoiding daylight, take-away. Alcohol. That sort of thing, you know…”

“Well,” Thorin looked pointedly out the window, to the grey sky beyond, “there's no sun today, so I think you'll be fine.” He looked back to Bilbo, “Your other vices can wait until tomorrow.”

“Something to look forward to.” Bilbo grinned, surprised by Thorin's jovial disposition today, “So you're in a good mood?”

Thorin laughed, adjusting the glasses on his nose, “I'm always in a good mood!”

“Are you?”

“Yes!”

“I don't know, when I met you, you seemed like you were in this perpetual state of vexation.”

“Only if you're my nephew,” Thorin grinned still, “And only a writer would say it like that.”

“ _Well_ ,” Bilbo nudged his manuscript with the butt of his pen.

Thorin snorted, “Right,” looking down at the pages, fiddling with his glasses, “Let's begin shall we?”

“Uh yes, okay—” Bilbo started, “let's begin. Let's begin…” he flipped through the pages of his draft, looking, unsure where to start.

“How about we start at the beginning?” Thorin suggested.

“Good idea,” Bilbo smiled, sheepish, giggling.

With a finger, Thorin pushed up against the bridge of his glasses again (Bilbo suspected this was a bit of an unconscious tick), and flipped back to the front of the novel, “So the first sentence is so good, I love it...”

 

 

 

_  
**I wasn't with my mother when she died, as so many sons are — watching in their mid-lives as their mums waste away in sterile hospital beds before them — I was watching the late night news, in my pants, over take away. My mother was on the late night news, in Prague, dead.**_

 

 

 

  
ii.

  
“Uncle, you're going a bit grey, you know,” Fili said, bothering Thorin while he and Bilbo tried to work.

“No I'm not,” he huffed in reply, though he knew very well that he was.

“Yes, you are,” Bilbo grinned, lifting his pen to point at the closely cropped hair growing around Thorin’s temples, “right there.”

“It's hereditary,” he mumbled.

“No it isn't,” Kili said, “Grandad didn't go grey until he was well old. You just stress over everything.”

“Boys I'm in the middle of something,” Thorin sighed, gesturing to the papers strewn across his work table, “don't you have homework to do?”

“Nope,” Kili grinned, “professors gave us the weekend off.”

“Where is Dwalin? You can go bother him.”

“It's only half past noon, Uncle.” Fili said, “He's still at school.”

“And we like hanging out with you.” Kili said, affecting the worst puppy-dog eyes Bilbo had ever seen (though he was sure they must have worked on at least a few unfortunate souls).

“ _Menu jemetu_ ,” Thorin switched tongues quickly - the same confusing language he'd heard Thorin speak in his office the day they'd met. But Bilbo could tell it was a dismissal, “ _tan gamut warg ai-menu._ ”

“ _Yemu_ ,” Fili rolled his eyes, heading for the door.

“ _Tak sanu yemezu_ ,” Kili followed after his brother, smiling, “Bye Bilbo.”

Bilbo gave a small smile in return, “Bye.”

He turned to Thorin, “What language is that?”

“ _Khuzdul_.”

“Never heard of it.”

Thorin chuckled, “You wouldn't have.”

“Where is your family from?”

Thorin shuffled his papers, not looking up at Bilbo, “Why so many questions?”

“I'm just curious, is all.”

That seemed to satisfy him, “My family is from Erebor. It is a small city state in Europe, next to Austria and the Czech Republic.”

“I didn't need the geography lesson,” Bilbo groused, “I might have know where it was.”

Thorin looked up at him through his glasses, “And did you?”

Bilbo feigned exasperation, “Well I might have!”

Thorin laughed and Bilbo gaped, “Whatever, old man, have it your way. But let's take a break I need more coffee.”

 

 

 

 

iii.

 

Thorin never did up the top buttons on his shirts. Bilbo noticed that the third time they met for coffee. The fifth time they met, the barista knew his order by heart, and Bilbo mustered the strength to not stare at the length of skin and chest uncovered beneath Thorin’s dress shirt.

Bilbo always did up his buttons. Thorin noticed that the fourth time they met. And Bilbo never wore a tie but sometimes Thorin noticed the way he scratched at his collar bones like he's itching to straighten the one that isn't there. Thorin noticed a scar on Bilbo’s hand, one that stretched the length of his whole index finger, and wondered how it got there. He watched the dapples of sun that shone onto Bilbo’s curls on the occasional sunny day, how it made his fair hair look golden when they sat at their bar beside the window. He read Bilbo’s words, and wondered what happened to this wonderful little man to make him write so sadly, with so much depth. Thorin wondered what happened to this beautiful man, and how he still managed to smile with his whole face.

They were in Thorin’s office on a Sunday, usually their day off, but Bilbo called him at six in the morning wondering if such-and-such passage might work better if so-and-so had a different motive. So Thorin hauled himself out of bed and gapped his way over to _Khazâd_ , probably not half as mad as he should be for having been dragged to the office on his day off. And now here they were, five mugs of dried out coffee dregs and the long forgotten pages of Bilbo’s manuscript between them on Thorin’s desk.

“It's a true story you know,” Bilbo said, quietly, looking down at the pages in his lap.

Thorin didn't say anything, just watched Bilbo’s eyelashes flutter, his lip twitch.

“Well. It's not really true. But it's inspired by my mother.”

Thorin had suspected as much. Bilbo had wanted to dedicate the novel to his parents, and Thorin assumed they were at least in part responsible for the inspiration.

“She's dead now, mum. But she was always a firecracker. That's what my da always liked to call her. He was a quiet man, but he loved her so much.”

Bilbo looked out to the hallway, “She liked adventure a bit too much though, she was always doing something, and it _always_ got her into trouble. Got that from her side of the family, Tooks are all the same. But one day she just left and -

“She loved us, don't get me wrong, but not in the way that everyone else did. She loved us but she could never be tied down.”

And maybe Thorin was still a bit tired after two and a half cups of hurried coffee, because his gaze started to blur and he found himself staring at Bilbo’s lips as he talked. And then Bilbo stopped talking, and Thorin only realized he had — not because his voice stopped humming around Thorin’s ears — but because his mouth stopped moving. And Thorin watched rapt as Bilbo’s small tongue lept out to dampen his lips, dried from having spoken so long with only dehydrating coffee to freshen them.

Bilbo looked down too, drawn by Thorin’s distracted gaze to those red-bitten lips and he flushed, noticing he had unconsciously started leaning forward.

There was a light rapping on the door frame and Bilbo looked over, shaken, to see that there was a rather beautiful woman standing there. Dark in coloring and strong in countenance, she looked quite a bit like Thorin if he were a woman. Though standing in the doorway, she appeared much shorter than him, probably just above Bilbo's height.

“Thorin,” she said by way of greeting, walking into the office.

“Dís,” he said back. She sat down in the empty arm chair, sinking into the cushion beside Bilbo. “To what do I owe the pleasure.”

“I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop by,” she smiled rather like a sly old cat, Bilbo thought.

“Bilbo,” Thorin said, turning to him, “This is my _accountant_ , Dís.”

“ _Sister_ ,” she smiled at Bilbo, much more warmly this time, and proffered out her hand for him to shake.

Her grip was firm, and Bilbo recognized that smile, “Oh wow, you're Fili and Kili’s mum, aren’t you? I see the resemblance.”

“Strong genes.”

Bilbo grinned.

“So this is the famous Bilbo I've been hearing about? My brother told me —”

“ _Alright Dís._ What do you want?”

She crossed her legs, one over the other, and leaned on the arm of the chair, “I _wanted_ to stop in and talk for a moment, I thought I'd take the boys to lunch afterwards.”

“The boys are in class today, you know that. And I'm busy.” Thorin looked pointedly at Bilbo.

Bilbo blanched, “Oh! Don't worry,” he jumped out of his seat and grabbed his messenger bag, “I figure we’re done for today anyway, I was just heading out.”

He looked over to Thorin’s sister, who was staring at him with a jovial glint in her eye, “It was nice to meet you Dís. Have a good day,” and quite hurriedly, face pink, “Bye Thorin.”

And then he was gone, scurrying down the hall.

“ _Bye Thorin._ ” Dís parrotted once he was out of earshot, affecting Bilbo’s lilting voice.

“Shut up, Dís.”

 

 

 

 

iv.

 

Two months later, on Bilbo’s way down the hall a spritely young man ran out of Thorin's office, past him, yelling, “You can't treat me like this, I was listed as one of _Scotland's Foremost Writers Under Thirty!_ ”

Thorin stormed into the corridor after him, “Which is why I will not publish this _shite_ with your name on it!” There was a pile of loose leaf pages held high in his hand and an affronted look in his eye. He threw the draft onto the floor, papers scattering across the carpet. “You're better than this. Fix it and come back next week.”

He turned back into his office, Bilbo suspected having mustered just enough self control not to slam the door.

The writer looked like he wanted to rage and cry and Bilbo moved to help him, stooping to the floor and gathering up the pages.

“Thanks,” the little thing mumbled into his lumpy oatmeal jumper, wiping his runny nose on the too-wide sleeve and dropping to his knees next to Bilbo. Small unruly sections of sandy hair fell into his face.

“It's no problem. I've never seen him so angry,” Bilbo looked up and smiled warmly, “I'm Bilbo.”

“Ori. Rison.”

Bilbo gaped, “You wrote _The Watcher in the Water_ , didn't you?”

He nodded.

“I love that novel!” Bilbo laughed, “Wow I can't believe I'm meeting you on Thorin’s office floor.”

“It's not an uncommon place for me to be.” Ori said dryly, reaching for another page, “You should stop by more often.”

“You know, he probably just hasn't had his morning coffee yet.”

Rushing out of the office, Dwalin dropped to his knees beside them to help pick up the scattered pages, his cheeks ruddy and bright beneath the thick beard. He looked up a few times, trying to catch Ori’s gaze — who, when Bilbo looked over, had flushed completely and was having a hard time hiding it.

Dwalin straightened the pages in his hand and stood, proffering his hand to help Ori up.

Ori took it, standing slowly and smiling, muttering thanks when Dwalin passed over the rejected draft pages. His hand looked so small in Dwalin’s.

Bilbo watched them from his crouch, still on the floor.

“Bilbo,” Thorin’s voice carried from the office door, and he looked away from the happenings above him. Leaning against the doorway, Thorin gestured for him to come inside.

Bilbo stood and followed Thorin, closing the door behind them. “Do they…?” he asked, nodding out to the corridor, making halfway suggestive signals with his hands.

Thorin smirked knowingly, “They'll be skirting around each other until the end of time.”

“Too bad.”

Thorin barked out a laugh and sat down, “Coffee?”

 

 

 

  
v.

 

_Today was the day. Today was the day. Today was the day!  
_

_Oh god oh god oh god he was so excited._ Dwalin opened the front door for him and he rushed past the great wall of a man into the reception office.

“I figured they were coming in today, so I just wanted to stop in and see if they had—” he shouted over his shoulder towards Thorin’s office, where his editor was probably stashed away somewhere in all that mess. Boxes upon boxes were stacked around the reception office and Bilbo tore into the first one he could find, not able to wait and see the words of his name and his title across the dust jacket of his _published novel._

He pulled the packing paper away and took out the first copy he saw, giddy, laughing, reading the words of his _name on a book—_

_Bilbo Baggins, The Impiety of My Moth—_

"Happy Ending?”

_What in the hell was Happy Ending?_

But there it was in a light orange lettering: his name, _Bilbo Baggins,_ as it should be. But then beneath in larger font read: _Happy_. Bloody. _Ending_

“I think they look good, don't you?” Thorin asked from behind him, having stepped out of his office and followed Bilbo down the hall.

And suddenly a rage built up in Bilbo's stomach and the book in his hands was flying, hurtling towards Thorin's fat head.

Thorin ducked just in time to miss it, " _Problem_?" he asked far too casually, and Bilbo was fuming.

" _Happy Ending?_ " he shouted, breathless.

“Yes, _Happy Ending_ ,” Thorin replied, arms crossed like this was a normal conversation.

“What happened to _The Impiety of My Mother's Love?_ "

Thorin walked closer, moving to rest against the arm of his ratty sofa, “I told you, the first time we met, I said it must go.”

“Yeah, but we never discussed it,” Bilbo spluttered, “I had a few ideas. We never—”

“I knew how you'd react, _madtubirzul_ ,” Thorin sighed, exasperated. But Bilbo didn't know what that word meant, and one corner of Thorin's mouth was turned up in a way like he found this all very endearing indeed and Bilbo hated him, “Like you are now: _overreacting_.”

He wanted to throw something else. But he looked around and all there was were those bloody books and he didn't even want to look at the covers. On the coffee table, atop its usual pile of disorganized clutter was —

“Oi, that's my Young Publisher of the Year Award!” Thorin shouted, pointing.

“ _Runner up!_ ” And the metal trophy cracked against the plaster wall when Bilbo threw it.

It wasn't nearly as satisfying as he hoped it would be, visibly deflating before Thorin’s eyes. He sighed, “How can this be so easy for you, I told you what that title meant to me.”

“Well it wasn't good for marketing. And maybe it's easy for me, because unlike you, I'm not living in the past, _worshiping_ my own pain, _obsessing_ over a mother who left when I was a kid.”

“What is wrong with you?” he was shocked, felt like he'd been slapped in the face, “All that time we spent together, working on the manuscript? No one ever got me the way— I thought we— I thought I knew you. Guess I don't.”

Thorin sighed heavily, leaning down to pick up his award, dusting it off, “It was a terrible title and so I changed it. What's done is done, let's move on.”

But Bilbo was still standing in the middle of the office unmoving, “Sit, take a breath. You can put this up on your Board later, right now we should talk about the launch.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Bilbo said through clenched teeth.

He moved to leave, but not before turning back to look Thorin straight in the eye, “Our deal is one more book and then what's done is done.”

“Bilbo—”

“ _Let's move on_.”

And Thorin thought it might have been better if Bilbo had slammed the door on his way out, if he had raged and yelled and screamed and caused a fuss. But he didn't. He left ghostly quiet, his head held high but his eyes hollow and dead.

And Thorin wished he had left angry, red hot, because if he had, maybe Thorin wouldn't have felt the cold shiver running up his spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to name Ori’s book The Book of Mazarbul, since that's the actual title of the book he wrote in Moria. But if you remember LoTR, then you know Ori was killed by the Watcher in the Water, which I thought made a nice book title :) 
> 
> Khuzdul in this chapter:  
> Menu jemetu: you're excused (I used this sarcastically, basically meaning go away)  
> Tan gamut warg ai-menu: May a good death be upon you (Thorin being a sarcastic shit)  
> Yemu: later, see you later, until later  
> Tak sanu yemezu: until tomorrow, see you tomorrow  
> madtubirzul: golden-heart (equal to sweetheart or darling)


	3. A Short Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude before things really get going... Also Gandalf :)

So. Bilbo’s book might have been a bit of a success. Tiny bit.

It was a successful launch, followed by a nod in a highbrow American paper, followed by a feature in the Daily Mail Bookshop, and then there it was: _Happy Ending_ by Bilbo Baggins, #1 Bestselling Novel in Scotland for three consecutive weeks.

There had been a few trite interviews, all commenting on Bilbo’s heartbreaking plot and the buckets of tears shed by the readers of his (speculated) semi-autobiography, to which Bilbo himself smiled in return and said, _It is so humbling to know that I made someone feel something genuine._

A week later, Thorin had started distributing the posters for Bilbo’s first book signing, another fact that made him want to lob a _second_ Young European Publisher of the Year Runner Up Award at Thorin’s big head. (And he might yet. But there were too many people around, he would accost him later.) Above the dates and times, Thorin had plastered this fucking embarrassing picture of Bilbo that he had taken when they visited Edinburgh together on a research trip (and not his author portrait, like Bilbo had specified); Bilbo looked windswept and his nose was ruddy. He hated Thorin.

The space Dwalin had reserved months prior for the book signing, it seemed, was much too small now. It had been anticipated to be a small event, thirty or so people at most. But now the aisles of the bookshop were being used as barriers for the waiting queue that ran out the door, all leading in a snakelike formation towards Bilbo, who was stationed in the back. Bofur was sitting at his feet in a nest of extra copies of _Happy Ending_ , eating snacks.

Bilbo checked his watch. The signing was only half over. Ori had stopped by earlier to say hello, but that seemed like ages ago. He straightened his collar, reaching out to take the next book with a smile.

Thorin was hovering by the wayside with his arms crossed, wearing another hideous jumper (all of his jumpers were somehow nauseatingly hideous), but this one in a forest green knit and it was especially Disgusting. Bilbo was attempting to share as few words as possible with the twat and take his leave of him. He wouldn't have to speak to Thorin for another several weeks after this — not face to face anyway.

Thorin always sent little passive aggressive emails and texts, just to make sure Bilbo wasn't forgetting about him:

_Meeting @9. Don't trip on the stairs this time._

_Contract edits from lawyer by tonight or so help me_

Well, maybe they weren't as much passive as they were outright aggressive. But Bilbo had found them funny before — when he could find the humor in Thorin’s sardonicism. When he found the perpetual crease between Thorin’s brows somehow intimidating instead of ridiculous, and the grey streaks in his hair were just cause for playful teasing. _You work too hard old man, let's take a break I need another coffee_. If Bilbo tried that now, Thorin would have his neck. Thorin, it had seemed, had taken an equal dislike to Bilbo over the past few months.

Bilbo signed his name.

He was trying to enjoy himself today, he really was; his book was selling, and had reached the peak of multiple national lists. But. Every time he looked at that cover, every time he saw the title printed out, everything stung all over again. And what a pathetic problem that was, to be so upset about a book title being changed. But it was _his_ book title. And it was _his mother’s_ legacy. And she might not have been the best of mothers, but she was his. And she deserved better than _Happy Ending_.

That book was full of tragedy. Of heartbreak, _his_ heartbreak, and her loss. And for Thorin to change it — someone who he had grown to trust, whom he had begun to open up to. 

Apparently, there were no happy endings.

“Have a good afternoon,” Bilbo grinned, closing the book and passing it back to the patron who had given it to him, trying for cheerful.

“You okay, Bil?” Bofur was all camped out behind Bilbo’s table (much to Thorin’s chagrin), coffee and doughnuts with him in his nest.

“I'm good,” Bilbo said, though he was sure his voice betrayed him.

(Bofur was his closest friend. It had been a long time since Bilbo had considered him anything more than that. There had been a time, very long ago, when they had tried it. (Well maybe two times. Or three times. But the first two incidents were fuzzy from cheap wine, and there wasn't much to remember besides wet mouths and bristly mustache-kisses. The third occasion was never to be spoken of again.)

 _No_ , Bilbo thought, _it was much better to be friends_. They were better for each other that way. And besides, Bofur was a bit too self-involved with his own career to consider anything regarding actual romance.

They were great friends — best friends — and had been flatmates, before Bofur's first screenplay was picked up and he'd made enough money to move out of his tiny flat with Bilbo and buy his own house. Bilbo wasn't jealous, really. He was happy for Bof.

And he was glad that he actually had someone to sit next to at the Scottish Fiction Awards that didn't mind getting mind-numbingly drunk during the commercial breaks. If Bof drank a bit too much and stole all of Bilbo's acceptance speech time when he’d presented the _Best New Writer's Award_ , well, _c’est la vie._

If he'd snogged Bilbo on stage and started a few rumors, _well_.

_C’est la vie._

But he and Bofur were best friends, and Bilbo didn't think anything could change that. Not distance, or busy schedules, or editors that couldn't leave well enough alone.

Thorin didn't like Bofur. Bilbo wasn't exactly sure why that was, seeing as they'd only met once before (Scottish Fiction Awards, 2011). Nothing remarkable had transpired, but now something about Bof seemed to rub Thorin the wrong way. _Whatever_. Stranger things have happened.)

 “Who should I make this one out to?” Bilbo smiled as a young woman stepped up to the table, passing him her copy of _Happy Ending_.

“Amy,” she said brightly, looking down at him. He signed it and drew a little happy face beneath his name, handing it back to her with a grin. As she walked away, Amy looked like she was seconds from swooning.

When he glanced over, Bof was rolling his eyes, “A heartthrob, already.”

“Shut up, you oaf.” Bilbo grinned, looking back at the table, where another book was being set down by the next in line, “And this is to…?”

The pair of hands that passed the book over were old, wrinkled, but still elegant; decorated with a gold signet ring that Bilbo would have recognized from a thousand meters away. Bilbo looked up, breathless. Fifteen years later, and that face was still unchanged.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo breathed. The old man's eyes sparkled beneath his grey lashes, lips upturned in their own private mirth. A lump formed in Bilbo's throat.

Gandalf stood before him, towering over the signing table, and Bilbo wasn't sure if he'd felt this small in a very long time. Gandalf's voice rumbled out of him, “Bilbo, my boy. How are you?” 

And Bilbo tried his hardest, he really did, but it was those words, that greeting that threatened to spill the tears. Standing, eyes wet, Bilbo made his way around the table (much to the cooing of those on line getting to see their new favorite author having a breakdown while reuniting with an old friend) Bilbo didn't move any closer to Gandalf, just waded a meter’s length away, but when the old mad man opened his arms wide — inviting — Bilbo fell into them willingly. He held Gandalf close, sure he would feel embarrassed about it later, but for now he just held tight to the fabric on Gandalf’s back like he had as a child, closing his eyes and taking in the familiar smell of him. Woodsy and ashen, despite his city life.

Bilbo rested his chin on Gandalf’s shoulder (still having to tip his head up a bit in order to reach, even after all these years), and when he opened his eyes again his gaze met Thorin’s, still hovering in the doorway. His face was unreadable, unrecognizable in some strange way.

Thorin wouldn't look away.

Somewhere, muffled around them in the crowd, Bilbo heard applause. He just closed his eyes and breathed deep.

 

 

 

_**CHAPTER V: THE DEATH OF MR. GREY  & THE ARRIVAL OF MR. WHITE**_

 

**_A week after the news report announcing her death, I received a postcard stamped from Prague. Across the back, in my mother's quick hand read:_ **

**I am in paradise. I could live here forever, and I might. My darlings, how do you feel about moving to Prague? Bunny, my love, I know you would not agree to it, but the air here is so fresh. Should you stand under the Czech sun, I know you would feel as I do. Willie my child, I love you, always**

**Your mother, your wife, yours,  
Rosemary**

**_On the front of the postcard was a photograph of my mother, smiling, and the man from my childhood who I knew as Mr. Mallory Grey. He stood tall and thin beside his Rosemary, towering over her in a charcoal suit. As a boy, I had seen him around the estate many times; popping in unexpectedly to visit my mother and whisk her away to unknown parts._ **

**_That summer, an uncommonly hot and dry Scottish August, was when I first met Mr. White._ **

**_Mr. Grey — for in my childhood that was what I had believed his name to be — called upon me at my flat in Edinburgh, which was small and cramped and not in any state to receive guests. There was a patch of damp in the ceiling, where my upstairs neighbor had left their s_** **_ink to overflow and drip through the floorboards. The entire room smelled of rot. But I was resigned to stay there, not wanting to return to my family home down south and face my grieving father._ **

**_Mr. Grey appeared to have found my hovel quite endearing; smiling wanly as he stood in the middle of the living room, like he thoroughly enjoyed putting me out of sorts. His ivory suit jacket was the only swath of luxury in that entire flat. I would have found that funny, in some ironic way, if I hadn't been flustered by his sudden occupation of my front room._ **

**_I had expected it to be a condolence call, for him to be profusely apologetic in the wake of my mother’s death, et cetera, et cetera, stroking his own ego as he helped heal my grieving heart (as I had grown used to from my father’s club friends)._ **

**_But instead, that old man — towering over me in his ivory suit — said, “William, my boy. I am Mr. White, a friend of your late mother’s. Would you like to go to Paris?”_**

 

 

 

 ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! This was really short, I know, but I just wanted to post something since there hasn't been an update in a while. 
> 
> Next chapter will be much more Thorin centric, so watch out for that :)


	4. 36 Chapters Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phone calls, dropped calls, duty calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure at least one person is drinking coffee in every scene... can you tell I'm a caffeine addict?

Bilbo and Ori had been living together for six months.

It was wonderful; the two of them having wrapped around each other a week after they met. And they had integrated into the other’s lives without so much as an upset (at least, nothing larger than the time Ori had lost the measuring cups— they don’t talk about it).

They had become quite the inseparable pair since their meeting those months ago, brought together through their mutual disdain for Thorin’s outlandish priggishness. Now, Ori’s little tchotchkes lined the shelves next to Bilbo’s, and their collection of books was enough to make a rather sizeable library.

Two writers living under one roof; they discussed and plotted and outlined and typed together, sitting side by side, or across from one another in Bilbo’s living room; now their living room, and Ori’s arm chair did look quite fine next beside his. They loved living together. They were best friends (though let’s not forget about Bofur, who always would remain the third in their little band of wordsmiths). And it seemed, while they worked, that they could not part for more than a few hours without consulting the other on word choice or some such other small thing.

It was during these blissful six months that Bilbo had written the better part of his new novel, and received an offer from _Blade and Branch_ to move publishers after his contract with Thorin had expired. The former of these two things — his new novel (the last, _thank Christ_ , that would be published with _Khazâd_ ) — he was in no special hurry to finish, only his freedom from Thorin’s company spurred him on to write. But all the same, the words flowed easily, steadily. The latter, the prospect — no, the _offer_ — of being published by _Blade and Branch_ had Bilbo bouncing off the walls like a child. He would get to see his writing between those iconic green and silver covers. His boyhood bookshelf had been _lined_ with those green and silver covers.

His new novel was a fantasy adventure; a distant leap from the introspective drama of _Happy Ending_. Maybe Bilbo had been a bit inspired by his flatmate’s particular genre of writing. A lost soul, facing the idleness of life alone is swept away from the quiet thrum of his warm hearth by a wizard in Grey. Here enters a band of companions, all sizes and countenances, and thirty-six chapters later they stand at the foot of their Motherland, staring up into the black eye of a fire-breathing dragon, surrounded by the hoard of stolen gold, the sound of war now a call on the breeze…

 _Chapter 37_ , Bilbo typed, the Beginning of the End. He cracked his knuckles, smiling to himself. He picked up the house phone sitting at his side on the desk, typing in the number which had become so familiar to him.

“ _Bilbo_.”

“I’m starting the last chapter,” his smugness may have accidently leaked into his voice over the line. He hadn’t called to gloat. Well, maybe a little. “You’ll have the manuscript by the end of the week.”

“ _It’s about bloody time,_ ” Thorin said shortly, a bit breathless.

Bilbo tutted, swiveling around in his desk chair to face the kitchen, “No need to be rude.”

“ _Well, it’s not like I can help it when I talk to you,_ ” Thorin huffed, voice crackling in static over the phone line, “ _you’ve never been so—_ ”

“Happy?” Bilbo supplied, grinning.

Thorin seemed thoroughly disgusted,  _“Happy?”_

“Yes, happy, you bastard," Bilbo furrowed his eyebrows, "I am happy.”

“ _I was_ going _to say annoying,_ ” Thorin huffed again, or maybe it was a scoff. Or a snort. Whichever it was, Bilbo hated it. After a moment of silence, Thorin asked, “ _So, one more chapter?_ ”

Bilbo’s smile stretched his cheeks, “Yes.”

 _“And then we’ll never have to see each other again?”_ Thorin asked in his ear.

Bilbo hummed, “Yes.”

There was a beat before Thorin spoke, and Bilbo might have thought he hung up, if Thorin hadn’t breathed heavily and said, “ _Better get writing then,_ yemu _,_ ” and promptly dropped the line.

Bilbo pulled the phone away from his ear and let out a scoff, “ _Yemu_ , to you too. Whatever that means.”

He was glad to be rid of Thorin. They wouldn’t have to speak much during the editing process, besides their mandatory sessions and meetings and whatnot. Bilbo could go through emails or through Dwalin if he really had to. Then came the launch party and additional meetings and press, which would undoubtedly be more intensive than the first time around. Still, that could all be done through Dwalin.

Bilbo turned back to his desk and put the phone down, scrolling over the end of Chapter 36. He was still in a writing mood, fingers hovering over the keys, letting them clack against the laptop as he rest them there. He would be seeing less and less of Thorin in the coming months, until it was once every few weeks, and then he would be let out of his contract, and then —

And then it would stop.

His fingers hovered over the keys.

He sat there, staring at the screen as the cursor blinked. It blinked and it blinked.

Bilbo snuffled his nose. He rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles. Closed his eyes and opened them again and looked out the window. The light there was too bright, having only been used to the dim tint of his computer screen for the past few hours. The steady hum of writing had ebbed away, and Bilbo was left bereft. His eyes painfully adjusted, slowly, to the blue sky outside. He watered the oak bonsai his mother had given him before she left.

Bilbo sat up straighter against the back of his chair, hands poised over the keyboard, like they always were. The cursor blinked at him. The page remained empty. The cursor blinked. And blinked. And blinked. He developed a headache.

Some time later, Ori walked into the kitchen behind him, knocking around in the cabinets and doing something that would probably cause a mess. He was humming to himself, an earbud stuck in one ear, the other dangling at his waist. The tinny sound of music droned from his headphones. Apparently, it was a showtunesday.

Bilbo sighed, pushing away from his laptop. He needed a break anyway. “Ori, what are you doing right now?” _Apparently, he was singing the song of angry men…_ nodding his head and swinging his hips as he mouthed along to his music _._ Bilbo chuckled and raised his voice, “Ori!”

“Yeah?” his roommate yelled, a little too loud, turning around.

Bilbo grinned, lifting his chin, “What are you doing right now?” 

“Baking,” Ori said, gesturing to the mess of ingredients surrounding him on the counter. “What are you doing?”

Bilbo stood up and stretched, reaching towards the ceiling. He waded around their counter into the kitchen, “I'm helping you.”

“Helping me?” Ori raised a suspicious eyebrow, “You only help me bake when you’re blocked. Are you blocked?”

“Blocked? Me?” Bilbo huffed, tugging his shirt down where it had run up a bit, “No, just... clearing out the pipes.”

Ori hummed, unconvinced, turning to reach into the refrigerator and pull out the butter, “Whatever you say.”

 

 

 

Thorin should have been reviewing Ori’s mockup from the printer's. The book was coming out in a few weeks. He should have been working. Should have been doing anything.

“Why are you staring at the phone?”

Thorin looked up, and Dwalin was standing in his office doorway, hand propped up on the post, “Why are you staring at _me?”_ Thorin countered.

Dwaling pointed out to the carpark, “Dís is here, she wants to go for lunch.”

Thorin really just wanted to go to sleep. He got up out of his chair anyway, shoulders lolled a bit from exhaustion. He followed Dwalin down the hall.

“So,” Dwalin started over his shoulder as he neared the front door, “why were you staring at the phone?”

“I wasn’t staring that the phone,” Thorin replied, a little too quickly. He tried to slow his pace, delaying the inevitable.

Dwalin clucked, “You were talking to Bilbo earlier, right?”

Thorin let out a tight breath, “Yes, he’s finishing the last chapter as we speak. We’ll have it by week’s end.”

“Shame, I’ll miss the poor sod,” Dwalin said as he pushed open the front door, walking towards where Dís was idling in the lot, “Maybe you could convince him to stay?”

Thorin made a loud interjectory noise, pulling out his keys and locking the office behind them,“No!" he shouted over his shoulder, "After he sends in the manuscript I want him to go, far away!”

“But why were you staring at the phone?” Dwalin asked again, crowding against him.

“Let’s stop talking about it,” Thorin said, pulling open Dís’ passenger side door, sequestering Dwalin to the backseat (he deserved it, the bastard).

Dís, ever nosy, had to ask, “Stop talking about what?”

Thorin pulled on his sunglasses, pointedly looking out the window and away from his sister, “Nothing.”

“We’re not talking about Bilbo, apparently,” Dwalin told her, leaning forward between their seats.

“But why? Bilbo is Thorin’s favourite subject!” Dís started up the car and pulled onto the main road, “You would bring him up at least three times a week while you were reading his first manuscript! _Oh, what beautiful writing! I must meet this writer… blah blah blah…”_

Dwalin exploded with laughter in the backseat. Dís chuckled along with him, hands on the wheel.

“I said none of those things," Thorin protested, but they kept giggling. Thorin closed his eyes, and sighed petulantly, “I hate both of you.”

 

 

 

“Please use small words if we’re forced to talk about cash flow,” Thorin groused into his lunch, “It’s too early in the day for accounting thoughts.”

His sister looked from her food and glared at him pointedly, “How many writers have you thrown money at this year?”

“I only throw money at _good_ writers. Good _Scottish_ writers. Dwalin can attest to that.”

Beside him, Dwalin coughed, covering his mouth with a fist, “Uh— yes. Very talented, and um— short?” Thorin snorted, turning back to Dís like that proved his point completely.

“I’ve had an offer,” she said, ignoring him.

Thorin was suddenly very interested in his salad, stabbing at it and refusing to look up at her, “Oh?”

Dís reached into her purse and pulled out a file. She laid it out in front of Thorin. _Engrin Media_ , it read in a bold typeface. The same bastards who’d been trying to buy him out and turn _Khazâd_ into a multiplatform entertainment firm. Fucking e-books.

“I don’t need _Engrin Media_ ," Thorin insisted, "one hit can pay for all the rest. I have Baggins.”

“Thorin,” Dís said very patiently, pressing her hands into the dining table, “you’re on the verge of compulsory liquidation. I don’t know that _Baggins_ can save you from the bank. Not unless you can publish before Fall season _and_ make bestseller _again_. Maybe not even then. And what happens when he moves to _Blade and Branch_? Which he _is_ doing, by the way.”

“You know what they call _Blade and Branch_ in the trade?" Thorin asked, stabbing a tomato with his fork and gesticulating with it, " _Spayed and Blanch._ ”

Dwalin snorted, “Only _you_ call them that, and it’s just because you hate Thranduil Oropherion.”

“He’s a ponce,” Thorin waved his hand dismissively, “Anyway, we can pull it off, I know we can.”

Dís sighed, “Has Bilbo even _finished_ writing the thing? Have you even read it yet?”

“He won’t let me see it until he’s done. There’s only one chapter left, he’s probably halfway finished by now.” Thorin said, pulling his phone from the front of his trousers.

Dwalin chuckled into his tea, lifting it to his mouth, “He’s not that fast of a writer.”

Dís raised an eyebrow as Thorin raised the mobile to his ear, “What, are you calling him now? Isn’t he working?”

“Shut up. It’s ringing,” Thorin shushed, running a hand through his stubble as he waited for Bilbo to pick up. He should grow out his beard again.

“Wouldn’t that interrupt his — I don’t know — artistic flow, or something?” Dwalin asked, looking over at Dís for confirmation. She looked like she was trying not to smile. Thorin looked like he was trying not to kill them.

“Stop talking plea—” The line picked up and Thorin snapped his mouth closed, sound crackling in his ear.

“ _Yeah, hello?_ ” Bilbo answered, sounding distracted.

“Friday for the manuscript? Or do you think you could get it done by Thursday?” There was a metallic crash, and Thorin furrowed his brows, “Am I interrupting you?”

Bilbo made a noise like he’d realized something, “ _Greaseproof paper,_ ” he breathed ominously down the line.

“What?” Thorin spoke directly into the speaker, pressing the mobile closer to his ear, trying to hear over the racket coming from Bilbo’s end, “What are you doing?”

Bilbo went quiet for a moment, “ _Writing_ ,” he said, a little too quickly. An alarm beeped. It sounded suspiciously like the one on Bilbo’s oven.

“Are you _baking_?” Thorin yelled, and a few of the patrons seated around them in the cafe turned to look over at their table.

“ _Uhh_ —” Bilbo stalled, and then the line went dead.

“He hung up on me,” Thorin said in disbelief, staring at the mobile in his hand. Dwalin fucking giggled. He dialed again, but it just rang out and went to voicemail. He pulled the phone away from his ear, Dwalin and Dis looking at each other for answers.

“He’s baking,” Thorin told them, wide-eyed, a bit distressed, “he only bakes when he’s blocked.”

 

 

 

“I’m not blocked,” Bilbo insisted, dropping a closed fist onto the cafe table (he resisted the urge to think of it as _Thorin’s_ cafe. They had good coffee, he liked coming here, sue him).

Gandalf laughed, seated across from him. Bofur was on his other side. “Bilbo, my boy," Gandalf grinned, "you would never have agreed to come to lunch with if you were writing. I do know you.”

Bilbo just huffed in response, trying to drown himself in his drink, but he’d reached the bottom and there were only dregs left. Bilbo frowned.

“How many days has it been?” Gandalf asked, looking him over in a way that somehow dripped with pity.

“Three,” Bofur answered for him, pulling at the cuff on Bilbo’s shirtsleeve, “He’s been hysterical, I thought he might start going genuinely insane after the fourth mousse tart.”

Bilbo dropped his cup back onto its saucer, looking from Gandalf to Bofur, “It’s not as bad as all that. You’re being dramatic.”

“Not really," grumbled Bof, the traitor.

“Yes, really,” Bilbo groused, standing up from their table and turning back to the counter, “I’m going to get more coffee.”

“Can you get me one too, darlin?” Bofur pleaded, trying to woo Bilbo with his terrible sad puppy eyes. Bilbo just groaned in begrudging affirmation and took Bof’s empty coffee cup from the table.

Bilbo ordered; a cold breeze drifted over from the door as Bilbo waited for their coffees, and he shivered, tugging his sweater a bit tighter around himself. When he walked back to their table in the corner, saucers balanced in both hands, Bilbo saw a figure standing in front of his empty seat. It was Thorin (because, of course it was). He was laughing with Gandalf, at something the old man had said, resoundingly ignoring Bofur beside him.

“Hi,” Bilbo interrupted. He put himself between Thorin and the table, their shoulders brushing together. Without giving his editor much room to respond he said, “What are you doing here?”

Thorin looked down to Gandalf, feigning sheepishness, “ _Well_ , this is my favourite cafe, as you well know. It’s not exactly my fault if we run into one another, now is it? Purely coincidence.”

“Yes, coincidence,” Bilbo’s eyes narrowed as he set down Bofur’s coffee and sent Gandalf a considerable glare, the old man looking well entertained by the situation before him.

“You ought to join us, Thorin,” Gandalf smiled up at him, “Pull up a chair, will you?”

“Yes, do!” Bofur agreed, sending Bilbo a furtive look, wiggling his eyebrows in that _fucking annoying_ way he had.

“I think Thorin is just leaving, actually,” Bilbo announced, his voice rising as he grabbed at the forearm which had brushed against him, “Excuse us,” he said, and pushed Thorin towards the opposite side of the cafe. Bilbo sent a glaring look over his shoulder. Both Gandalf and Bofur looked entirely unbothered. Bilbo walked away from them, prodding Thorin along.

Once out of earshot of their company, Thorin dropped his smile, “Where is my novel?” he asked sharply.

“I’m working on it,” Bilbo rolled his eyes, looking up at him.

“So you’re not blocked?” Thorin leaned down into Bilbo's face, like he was inspecting him.

“No!” Bilbo rose a defensive hand to his chest.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Plenty of writers experience it.” Thorin was leaning forward, his voice poking, “There are a myriad of ways to overcome this affliction.”

“Enlighten me," Bilbo huffed, exasperated. He put his hands on his hips, waving Thorin on, "Do. Please.”

“Psychedelic drugs," Thorin said, like it was the most genius thing he had thought of.

Bilbo laughed without meaning to.

“I’m serious,” Thorin said, “They do wonders for the imagination.”

“I’m not blocked,” Bilbo insisted, his voice rising a bit.

“Until you deliver that manuscript, you are still under contract to me. So whatever is going on, you need to figure it out and get writing,” Thorin lifted a finger and poked him right in the middle of his forehead, only to have Bilbo quickly scraping to push him away. Thorin huffed out a laugh, and paused for breath. He rocked on his heals, his gaze sweeping over Bilbo’s face, before breathing, "Bye Bilbo.”

And with that Thorin swept out the door. “Git.” Bilbo whispered after him, turning to walk back to Gandalf and Bofur, “I’m not blocked.”

 

 

 

When Thorin got back to his office, Kili was sitting behind his desk, crying over a copy of _Happy Ending_. Thorin stopped walking, “What are you doing?”

Kili sniffled, turning the page, “Get’s me every time, it’s that ending.”

Thorin took the book away from him, taking a seat in one of his armchairs, “Don’t talk to me about endings,” he muttered. “Where’s your brother?”

“With Dwalin I think, helping him with marking exams or something,” still sniffling, “You know how the Year Tens always write bogus answers.”

Thorin nodded, sinking into the cushions. “Oh, Bilbo says hi.”

That broke fresh tears, Kili blubbering into his sleeve rather melodramatically, “Poor Mr. Boggins! What a terrible life he must have had.”

“What are you talking about?” _And why was he still using that nickname?_

“Oh well, he seems so happy all the time but that can’t be. His book is miserable, and where did that sadness come from? A mind plagued by funky thoughts. That’s how writers tick isn’t it? No misery, no poetry.”

Thorin hummed, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair. He looked away from Kili, gaze settling on the copy of _Happy Ending_ sitting amongst the bank statements on his desk. His fingers stopped drumming.

He had a wonderful idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul:
> 
> Yemu - Later
> 
> Also I'm not sure why, but the notes from the first chapter keep getting tacked on to every new chapter I publish. If anyone knows how to fix that, could you let me know? Thank you :)


	5. on A TERRIBLE IDEA, with ASSISTANCE from MEDDLING UNIVERSITY STUDENTS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Terrible Plan - Phase One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I’m back! I’ve fleshed everything out in an outline and figure there will be 7-8 chapters when this is done. But Heads Up !!! The rating will be going up to EXPLICIT !! Not in this chapter, but in a later one. I don’t want to spoil anything so I won’t give a chapter number, but please beware. I don’t want anyone to be surprised, or upset or triggered by any sexy times that lie in wait. OKay! :)

Thorin Oakenshield had never known Bilbo Baggins prior to him submitting his first draft of _The Impiety of My Mother’s Love._ He never saw Bilbo in the throes of his writing, never saw how he outlined or wrote notes, or researched. He only knew Bilbo after; after the writing was done, when all that was left to do was edit, or replace. He imagined, in the months before, that Bilbo must have been bloody miserable.

 _Happy Ending_ was a thinly-veiled autobiography,  _very thin_  in some instances, and the emotion was dreadfully real. And how does one write so prolifically, so unapologetically painfully, without having been in a bleak emotional state to begin with?

That’s how writers tick, isn’t it?

Here begets Thorin’s plan: These ingredients of melancholy, when applied again (liberally) to this same writer  (now happy thanks to his bestselling novel, and unable to find inspiration) would undoubtedly return him to the same state of misery in which he wrote his profitable debut.

No misery, no poetry.

“That’s a terrible idea,” Dwalin said blankly, finally looking up from the mobile in his hands. His marking was due tomorrow, and he was _texting._

“Who have you been talking to all day?” Thorin asked, grabbing for the phone.

“None of your business.” said Dwalin, clicking his mobile to black and flipping it face down on the table between them. He crossed his arms, muscles tensing, “I think we should focus on this _terrible_ plan of yours.”

“No, Uncle it’s brilliant!” interrupted Kili, clapping shut the book he wasn’t reading, “It will definitely work. Fili and I will help, right Fi?”

Fili, actually doing his coursework, glanced up from his writing and smiled, “Yeah we’d love to,” he said, “Anything to help Mr. Boggins.”

Dwalin gave an indignant snort, “You want to make Bilbo’s life a misery so he finishes writing his novel? That’s fucked up.” He looked at Thorin, “Even for you.”

Thorin stared back at him, “Bilbo needs to finish his writing. It’s for the greater good.”

Kili grinned, “We can start tomorrow!”

 

 

 

Although it was not so uncommon for Bilbo to sit by his lonesome in the light of their flat and stare blankly into the turning leaves of his mother’s oak bonsai — to ponder for hours without writing a word — it was however, uncommon for his mind to be idle while sitting so. Most usually, he played out scenes in his head, letting the greens and browns of the plant twist into the faces of his characters, into the backgrounds of his scenes. But, as he sat there, in the light of the flat, it was all blank, the leaves were just leaves and the faces remained bleak in his mind.

The cursor still blinked at him. When he sat at his desk to write, the page remained empty, and Bilbo became restless. Idleness, it clawed at him.

A pan of cookies sat on the cooling rack in the kitchen, their scent luring Ori out of his bedroom. He was clutching the laptop huddled in his arms, tugging the electrical cord behind him as it dragged on the floor. His reading glasses and sweater were askew, and his hair was ruffled, like he’d fallen asleep while writing and only his hungry stomach had risen him.

Ori stole a molten cookie from the rack and sat down at his desk across from Bilbo (when Ori moved in, he’d shoved the face of his writing desk again Bilbo’s, so they could be across from each other as they worked in the common room. They liked to look up at each other while they wrote, smile, know each other were there). Within minutes, Ori was clacking away on his computer keys, working on the afterword he’d been putting off writing. The book was being printed that week. The launch party the following weekend.

Bilbo tried rearranging his desk, shifting his things around and then putting them back where they had been to begin with.

Bilbo tested his mother’s bonsai for water, and fed it a bit anyway, even when he found the soil damp enough. It needed pruning (but then again, so did he. Maybe he'd imprinted a bit too much on this tree).

Idleness. It clawed at him.

The clacking of Ori’s keyboard began to grate at Bilbo’s nerves. The endless dinging of message alerts from Ori’s mobile began to itch Bilbo’s skin. His headache was back. He massaged his temples. The cursor blinked.

Bilbo slapped his laptop shut and slid it away from him on the worktop, grabbing his yellow rain slicker from its hook and bidding a mumbled farewell to Ori before rushing out the door to their flat and letting it bang closed behind him. It was quiet on the landing, his shoes scuffing against the carpet. Bilbo sighed.

He trudged down the fifteen steps that led to the pavement, and locked the door behind him. Bilbo shrugged the jacket on and started walking. He had no destination in mind.

 

 

 

As Bilbo's back retreated down the path, Kili’s voice crackled over a walkie-talkie, _“Sweet Bottom has left the building, I repeat, Sweet Bottom has left the building. Over.”_

“Kili,” Fili sighed, in the passenger’s seat of Thorin's car, “I’m right next to you.”

“Yeah,” smiled Kili, waving around his radio, “but I was just making sure it worked.”

Thorin’s voice came in over the static, _“Why is Bilbo’s codename Sweet Bottom?”_

“Can you deny that he has a sweet bottom?" Kili raised and eyebrow, holding the walkie-talkie to his lips, "Over.”

There was a pause, _“Well what’s my codename?”_ Thorin asked.

“Eagle Two." Kili told him, "Over.”

Thorin sounded rather confused, _“And who’s Eagle One?”_

“Fili,” Kili grinned, looking over at his brother. And then remembered to add as an afterthought, “Over.”

Thorin’s chuckle was muffled, “Alright. I’m coming around the corner now. Fili, help me out.”

“Coming. Over and out.” Fili said into his walkie-talkie. He nodded to his brother, before opening the car door and sliding out.

“Good luck!” Kili yelled after him as the door closed, pulling his black cap over his face and slinking down in the driver’s seat. Fili gave him a thumbs up through the passenger-side window, throwing the end of his scarf over his shoulder, and disappeared down the street. Kili pulled out a pair of binoculars, aiming them at Bilbo’s window, and waited.

 

 

 

 

Bilbo walked to the cafe. Or more like, his feet took him there. It was a familiar path, Glasgow's West End having become a second home to him these past months. And he hadn’t had to think about anything at all as the storefronts and pubs passed by. He could let his mind be silent. Not the aggravating silence of trying to write, like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole and yielding no result. But a more comforting silence, a forgiving silence. One where he wasn’t required to put anything into words. It could just be.

Bilbo had been avoiding the bar by the window for the past few months, but took refuge there now, in his perch beside the cold glass windowpane. The bell above the door dinged.

“Bilbo, my boy," a voice said from behind him, "How are you? Still blocked?”

Bilbo scratched at his brow but didn't turn around, and instead pursed his lips against the rim of his teacup, “I’m sure you already know the answer to that, Gandalf.”

The old man chuckled, taking his seat beside Bilbo, “Well I’m sure you’ll think of something eventually. One of these days,” he stroked the white hair on his chin, “Have you tried writing in the nude? I’ve known other writers — Radagast Brown, there’s a good fellow. He does it all the time.”

Bilbo hummed, “No, thank you. I don’t think that kind of thing is really for me. I’m a more clothes _on_ type of writer.”

“Well,” announced Gandalf, nonplussed in the way he was about everything, “to each their own.”

The barista brought out Gandalf a drink, one that wasn’t on the menu, and one that Gandalf hadn't even ordered, but he which he delivered all the same, “And what about Thorin?” the old man asked.

Bilbo took a gulp of his coffee, wishing that it were something stronger, more alcoholic, “What _about_ Thorin?”

Gandalf started, “Well—”

“And why do you call him that?" Bilbo interrupted, " _Just_ Thorin, like you’re friends with him or something. He’s not a nice person, I don’t understand why you like him so much. With his stupid accent, I can hardly tell what he’s saying most of the time, and his stupid beard. God, I hate his beard.”

Gandalf just chucked.

Bilbo looked at him askance, “You know I’m moving publishers?”

“Mm, yes." Gandalf hummed, still touching his beard, "To _Blade and Branch_ , very good stock. Distinguished.”

Bilbo made a face into his coffee, “What does that mean?”

“What does what mean, exactly?” Gandalf asked, but it seemed like he already knew the answer.

“ _Distinguished_.” Bilbo lowered his voice to match Gandalf’s scratchy baritone, “What does that mean?”

“It means, my boy, that they are _distinguished._ Very well known in the industry, you will thrive. But, remember, it was _Khazâd_ who published you in the first place.”

Bilbo snorted, “Right. Like I actually owe any allegiance to Thorin Oakenshield? He’s only keeping me around because of the contract, if it weren’t for that I’d be out on my arse.”

Gandalf sipped his drink, looking at Bilbo from the side of his eye, “I highly doubt that.”

“Well, at least _Blade and Branch_ will actually treat me like my opinions matter." Bilbo added, feeling self-righteous, "You know Thorin changed my title?”

Gandalf raised one of his long eyebrows, like he had actually been surprised for once in his life, “Oh, yes?”

“Mm,” Bilbo hummed, bringing his coffee back to his lips.

“And what was it?” Gandalf asked, “This title, that Thorin changed?”

Bilbo tugged at the collar on his shirt, “Well it hardly matters now, does it?”

Gandalf put the cup down on its saucer, laced his fingers together, “Did you know, Bilbo, that Thorin’s father established _Khazâd Books_?”

Bilbo looked down at the bar, breaking eye contact with Gandalf, “I didn’t know that, no.”

“And that Thráin — Thorin’s father — is ill.” Something caught in Bilbo’s throat. Gandalf continued on, “And that Thorin, if being nothing less than an honorable and principled man, would not let his father’s company go without a fight?”

Bilbo coughed, “I don’t see what that has to do with changing my title.”

“Being an honorable and principled man, I do not think Thorin changed your title — whatever it was — with malicious intent. He was simply doing for you, what he thought was right. Why would a man do anything else?”

 

 

 

It took them a good twenty minutes to get into the building, waiting for Ori to leave too, and then Bilbo's downstairs neighbor, so they could sneak in through the open door. Upstairs, Thorin was stretched in front of Bilbo’s door jam, running his fingers across the lintel, looking for a spare key, “Aha,” he grinned when he found it, pulling it down and turning it in the lock.

He turned to Fili over his shoulder, taking back the plastic bag his nephew had in his hands, “Alright, follow me.” He pushed the door open with his shoulder.

Fili raised the radio to his lips, following Thorin into Bilbo’s living room, “We’re in, time for Phase One. Over.”

“ _Roger that Eagle One. Over,_ ” came Kili’s reply, “ _Oh, also, if Sweet Bottom made anymore blueberry muffins can you grab me one, Fi. Thanks. Over._ ”

Looking around the flat, Thorin headed towards where the large window was casting afternoon shadows across Bilbo and Ori’s desks. He settled the plastic bag on Bilbo’s worktop and lifted his own radio, glancing to where Fili was staking out the kitchen, “Kili, stay focused. And no, you can’t have any of Bilbo's cookery.”

“All he has are cookies, anyway, no muffins.” Fili said, sniffing over the cooling rack, “Over.”

Thorin looked over Bilbo’s corner as the boys kept giggling over the walkie-talkies. A stack of Bilbo's records leaned against a wall beside the desk. Thorin thumbed through them, grinning a little when he pulled out a copy of Simon and Garfunkel. Some Velvet Underground too. And one from the Hollies. Even Edith Piaf and a hard loved FrançoiseHardy. Of course Bilbo loved French Yé-yé. Thorin pulled out the saddest record he could find, a torn up copy of _The Queen is Dead,_ and put it on the record player. Subconscious melancholy, that. 

Thorin moved over to Bilbo's desk, his mother's plant. There was a framed picture beside the oak; it was probably taken a few years ago, before all of the book madness and before Bilbo and Thorin met each other. It was of Bilbo and Bofur, the screenwriter with his arm slung around Bilbo's shoulder, casual, smiling. Thorin scowled, turning the frame facedown so he didn't have to look at it. So Bilbo's smiling face wasn't staring at him. So Bofur's casual playfulness wasn't glaring him in the face. Out of the bag, he pulled a shriveled looking oak bonsai, its leaves brown and wilting (don't ask how he got it), its sad trunk hunched over. He took Bilbo’s plant — itself, blooming — out of its decorative pot, thumbed over the leaves. Should he feel bad about this? Probably not.

“ _Abort! Abort!_ ” Kili’s voice rang out, “ _Sweet Bottom is here, shit, Bilbo’s back he’s about to go inside! Thorin! Thorin he’s going up the stairs._ ”

“Shit,” Thorin spluttered, switching out the plants; shoving the dead bonsai in Bilbo’s colourful pot and carefully wrapping the live one in his plastic bag. “Fili, come on.”

Still looking over Bilbo’s baking, in a hurry, Fili just scooped up the whole rack of cookies and shoved them in his pockets.

“ _Get out of there! Abort! Abort!_ ” Kili's voice crackled, shouting.

Thorin ran into the foyer as the tumbler turned in the door, Bilbo unlocking it in the hallway. Thorin pulled Fili close to him behind the door, catching it as the door swung open and Bilbo walked inside. He looked tired, as he took off his rain jacket and hung it up. Thorin missed him. Maybe he’d call later.

He looked away, holding the door open for Fili as he tiptoed into the hall with his full pockets. Thorin slipped out behind him, making sure the lock clicked quietly. He replaced the key above the door jam, and the two of them made their way back to Thorin’s car.

Kili was focusing his binoculars at Bilbo’s window when they found him, “Fuck, that’s actually really sad.” he frowned, “I can’t look anymore.”

Thorin took the binoculars from him, and looked up at Bilbo where he stood in view of the window. He held up the oak in his hands, looking a bit like he wanted to cry.

Thorin pulled the binoculars away.

Well. Phase One complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wooh boy is Thorin an idiot. Like a huge idiot. May need to employ a certain amount of suspended disbelief to get through this whole thing ~
> 
> also I have a board on Pinterest for this story if that's something you care about. Some visual inspiration, I guess  
> https://www.pinterest.com/thedamnstars/lit-this-is-how-we-met/


	6. Blade and Branch and Grasper and Keeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Chapter 5? 6? I guess it’s technically 6. This one’s long compared to the other ones so that’s fun. Hopefully it makes up for the 2 month hiatus. Also, I went back and corrected typos and format errors in the whole fic so everything should be good now :) 
> 
> ALSO TeenCanteen just released a studio version of How We Met (Cherry Pie) you can listen to it here: https://youtu.be/yCkCLq4nifk Personally, I like the movie version better, but that’s just my preference

Bilbo still had soil under his nails. He picked at it while he sat at his desk and tried not to think about anything. He tried not to think about writer’s block or Thorin or Gandalf or his mother.

He hadn’t had a breakdown over the potted plant. It _was_ just a plant after all. He’d shoveled the dead leaves and limbs and soil into the bin, and put its pot in the back of his wardrobe and resolutely did not think about it dying for the rest of the week. He sat in front of his laptop and did not write. But instead of thinking about writer’s block or Thorin or Gandalf or his mother, he thought about happy things like Bofur and Thorin’s nephews and Ori’s launch party and signing his contract with _Blade and Branch_. He thought about happy things, and sighed into his chair and tried to let his muscles relax. He went out and took a walk to the bookstore where he’d had his first signing those months ago, trying to leave the cobwebs of his novel behind him.

But as much as he tried to abandon them at home, his characters seemed to follow him around all day like a pack of tiny shadows; the entire party of them, fourteen little adventurers trailing at his ankles as he tried to peruse the self-help section. They mumbled to each other, under their breaths, too low for him to make out their words. They taunted him as he browsed each title across the shelf: _101 Ways to Get Over Writer’s Block. Creative Writing for Dummies._ _What Would Jesus Write?_ That one made him laugh (really, it was more like a snort), making the woman perusing beside him look over. And do a double-take. And then shout his name. The fact that an old flyer from his book signing was still hanging on the bulletin board (one with his face on it, no less) only added to the brilliance of the whole affair.

Getting recognized in the bookstore really was the cherry on top of his miserable sundae. Especially as an author in the Writing Help section. Oodles of fun, to say the least. His little band of adventurers were laughing at him.

He walked home, his cheeks ruddy from embarrassment, and tried to count his happy things: Bofur. Thorin’s nephews. Ori’s launch party. Tomorrow, signing his contract with _Blade and Branch._

 

 

 

The next day, Bilbo went to meet with his new publishers at their Glasgow headquarters. Inside, the floors were marble and the ceilings were high, and Bilbo — standing in the light between two windows — was struck by just how dissimilar their office was to Thorin’s (and found himself realizing how much he preferred the cozy nonchalance to marble and sterile).

“Thranduil’s design,” said a voice coming in from down the hall — Dr. Bard Bowman, _Blade and Branch_ ’s co-Editor in Chief. He was dressed casually, considering his partner beside him was Thranduil Oropherion, long and elegant in French bespoke. He rivaled the palatial architecture.

“It’s very. Nice.” Bilbo stuttered, trying to smile even as the words caught in his throat and he realized just how tall and willowy this man was. He would dwarf even Gandalf.

Mr. Oropherion grinned thinly, and even that appeared poised. “Yes, I think so,” he said, appearing unruffled by Bilbo’s awkward folly.

Beside him, Bard clapped his hands together, and smiled broadly, “So let’s get right down to business, shall we?”

Bilbo practically started bouncing, “Oh, yes! You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this. I feel like I’m dreaming a bit. I mean your list is _amazing_ , you’ve published Beorn Black!”

“Ah yes,” Bard said, smiling as if remembering a fond memory, “Beorn, lovely old fellow.”

Thranduil nodded in agreement, “Wonderful writer,” he said, looking to Bilbo, “And do you know, I think you two have something in common?”

Bilbo blanched, mouth popping open, “Really, me? You think so? But Black is up there with Rushdie and McEwan!”

“Well, yes, perhaps.” Thranduil paused, chuckling dryly, “I was going to say that you were both discovered by your former publisher.”

Bilbo’s lips smacked closed, “Thorin?”

Thranduil nodded, “Yes, but they went their separate ways — creative difference, you know — before the first book was published, by _us_.”

“Sounds like Thorin,” Bilbo whispered, resigned, looking down at the large table beside them where contracts were laid out on its surface.

“Enough of the past!” Bard said, squeezing Bilbo’s shoulder, “Here’s to the future!” 

“I cried relentlessly while reading _Happy Ending_ ,” Thranduil grinned, glancing over at Bard. The two shared a look, teasing but fond. “It was atrocious.”

“It really was,” Bard laughed. He looked at Bilbo, eyes glinting conspiratorially, “Imagine trying to _sleep_ next to him the entire time.”

Bilbo blushed, and without much ado Thranduil opened up the contract, skipping the first few pages to a passage marked with a sticky note. Beside the contract was a fountain pen that Thranduil unscrewed and held out for Bilbo. With a slender finger, he pointed to a dotted line among the jargon, “So, if you would just sign here.”

Bilbo took the pen from Thranduil’s fingers. His hands were steady as he bent over the table, his smile comically wide. “So exciting!” he grinned, adjusting his grip on the pen. He looked back down to the page, scanning the text. None of it absorbed. He readjusted the way he was leaning over the table, the way his weight was balanced between his feet, tried reading the words in front of him.

He changed his grip on the pen, letting it touch down against the contract. It began to bleed against the paper.

Blocked.

Bilbo coughed, and looked up at Thranduil and Bard, who were both staring at him.

“... I’m sorry. Will you just excuse me for one minute?”

“Uhm,” Bard started, nodding though clearly puzzled, “Yes, yes of course.”

“Just - err - restroom.” Bilbo dropped the pen on the table, stumbling over himself and backing away towards the door, “Back in a tick!”

He rushed down the hallway and into the bathroom, closing himself inside and making sure that no one was occupying any of the stalls before sagging over the sink and sighing into his palm. He dragged that hand across his face, looking up into his reflection in the mirror.

“Idiot,” he mumbled at himself, now a bit deflated, “What are you doing?”

It was just - cold feet. Jitters. Wait no, that was for weddings. But publication contracts were a bit like weddings, weren’t they? You sign a piece of paper and then afterwards you can’t have intercourse with anyone else?

Why did he always do this to himself? Stop himself from achieving happiness? He’s mucking it all up. His own future, and he’s mucking it up! Did he secretly want failure? Or was he just a masochist? Was he just blocking himself?

But why?

Why? _Just sign the damn contract, Bilbo._ Sign it and there’s no more hatred no more anger no more red hot zeal. No more bullshit no more blockage. No more editor who smiled and joked and offered him coffee when he came in to visit on the weekends.

No more Thorin.

No more _Thorin_. God, he hated himself.

“You’re leaving him,” he reminded himself, “You’re leaving, you don’t need him.”

“ _Bilbo?_ ” came Bard’s voice, and a short rapping of knuckles on the bathroom door, “ _Are you alright in there?_ ”

“Fine, just a minute!” he shouted in the direction of the waxed lumber door, smoothing out his hair with one hand, and then awkwardly tacked on a: “Sorry!”

“ _Alright well, come out when you’re ready, I suppose_ ,” Bard said on the other side, _“Thranduil and I are waiting for you._ ”

Bilbo stood up straight again and stared at his refection in the mirror. He snuffled his nose. And adjusted his shirt collar.

“Sorry about that, so sorry,” he stuttered apologetically, when he came back down the hallway to where Bard and Thranduil were talking to each other in hushed tones.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bard smiled warmly, showing him back to the table, and the contracts laid out upon it. He handed the sleek fountain pen back to Bilbo.

Thranduil leaned over Bard’s shoulder, looking down at him, “Now then Bilbo,” he said smugly, “ready to work with a _real_ publisher?”

Bilbo clenched his teeth.

 

 

 

On the train ride home, Bilbo tried to think of happy things: Bofur. Thorin’s nephews. Ori’s launch party. Thorin.

Thorin. Thorin. Thorin.

 

 

 

Thorin was not sulking. If anything, he was celebrating the genius of his Plan. The frown on his face was not from disappointment, that’s just what he looked like when he was concentrating. Which he was, very hard, on what to do about Phase Two. Since, Phase One perhaps, wasn’t the biggest success after all. No matter how many times Thorin refreshed his inbox, Bilbo still hadn’t sent anything in. Still blocked, then.

Dís had taken him to dinner, as was her wont on weekday nights; dragging him out of the office and picking Dwalin up from the college for much needed sup. Dwalin was always famished after dealing with the Year Tens. They stuffed themselves good and silly. And then Thorin remembered it was Thursday.

“I called dad today,” Dís said, as she picked at her food, the low light of the Indian restaurant casting a shadow over her half of her face. She called their dad every Thursday. “He wanted to talk to Frerin.”

Thorin licked his lips, crumpling the paper thin napkin in his hand, resting it on the dark wooden table, “And what did you say?”

She blinked like it was a question, “Told him the truth,” she said.

“Dís,” Thorin sighed, “telling him the truth isn’t going to help anything. Just lie and save yourself the heartache.”

“I’m not like you Thorin,” she said, wetly, turning her face away from him, “I can’t just live with the self-agonizing bullshit.”

Thorin ground his teeth, tried swallowing, “I’m doing all I can for him. I’m taking care of the books. I’m taking care of _Khazâd_. I’m making sure he’s comfortable. But I can’t help him remember anything, that’s not how Alzheimer's works.”

“I hate that you’re such a pessimist,” she said.

“I’m realistic. It’s not as if he remembers the truth. I’m not going to keep hurting him.”

Dís pursed her lips, effectively ending that line of conversation before her eyes became watery. She stabbed at the food in her bowl and said, bitterly, “So, how did your plant murder go?”

Thorin rolled his eyes and groused, “Terrible.”

Dwalin, who had tucked into his curry and had so far been sitting silently between them, huffed, “That’s a shock.”

“Fuck you,” Thorin said, looking at him sharply.

“Well what did you expect to happen, Thorin?” Dís asked, drinking her wine, “Killing his potted plant isn’t exactly a dagger through the heart.”

“It was his mum’s plant,” he defended, “He would always talk about it.”

“So you murdered it.” Dís said.

“I was trying to help,” said Thorin, tersely, “And I didn’t actually _kill_ _it_ , I just replaced it with a dead one.”

“Fat lot of help, that was.” Dwalin snickered.

Thorin smiled, thinly, “Thank you.”

Dwalin grinned back, “You’re welcome.”

“This is going to work,” Thorin said, a bit too confidently.

Dwalin’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “Oh, I’m sure it will.”

“What did you do with the real one, anyway?” Dís asked.

“Keeps it on his desk,” Dwalin grinned, “Waters it everyday, poor thing. I think I saw him kiss it once.”

Thorin glared at his cousin.

“So what’s next?” Dís asked, laughing, “You gonna kill his dog?”

“Nah,” Dwalin shook his head, “Bilbo hasn’t got a dog.”

“I could buy him a dog. And then kill it.” Thorin said, brightly. When he saw Dís’ horrified expression he added (like it mattered), “It wouldn’t be a cute dog.”

Dwalin squinted, “That’s a bit psychotic, isn’t it?”

Thorin nodded, “No you’re right. He hasn’t even got a dog,” he chewed for a few moments, then grinned, “But he _does_ have a screenwriter.”

Dís narrowed her eyes, “The boys are not helping you kill Bofur Urskine.”

 

 

 

Dwalin, _Khazâd_ _Books_ ’ usual event planner, arranged to have Ori’s launch party in one of Glasgow’s medieval cathedrals; built before the Scottish Reformation of the 12th century, it was as good a place as any to have the launch for an action fantasy novel about knights and ghosts and warlocks (even if, you know, warlocks were the spawn of Satan, a known enemy of the Church of Scotland).

Dwalin was hovering around the south transept, where some of the front pews had been removed to allow for more floor space, the aisle full of guests. He took a sip of his drink when a familiar voice approached from behind, “I’m not huge fan of these things,” the voice said, and Dwalin turned to see Ori coming to stop by his side. He had a cupcake and a cocktail napkin in one hand and a flute of champagne in the other. His hair was as shaggy and disheveled as ever.

Dwalin coughed. “What, parties?” he asked, trying to find his voice. It had run away from him for a second.

“Well no, not parties.” Ori tried to explain, standing at his side and looking over the crowd of people who were mingling and talking and drinking. Every few moments, someone would look over to where Ori had wondered, to point, smile. “Just, everyone focused on me, you know? I’d prefer it if they just focused on the book and didn’t keep coming up to me.”

“Just stick with me then,” Dwalin joked, puffing out his chest. He was so tall and muscular though, the effect was still a bit intimidating even while he was kidding. “They’ll all be scared away.”

Ori flashed him a lopsided grin, “Yes, because you’re so terrifying.” And at that moment, just to prove Ori’s point, someone came up to him holding a copy of _Grasper and Keeper_. They smiled sheepishly, asking for his signature on the inside cover, paying Dwalin and his intimidating muscles no mind. They were smiling and giddy when they walked away with their autograph, and Ori laughed, “I think Dori was doing a better job as a human shield.”

Dwalin scoffed. Ori’s eldest brother was standing by the buffet table, more terrifying in his hand knitted sweater and monk straps than Dwalin could ever hope to be. “I’ll just do what they do in your book, shall I? Rip their hearts out with my axes when they get too close to you.”

Ori rolled his eyes, but started to feel his face heating up, “It’s their soul that Morgoth rips out, not their hearts.”

“Ah, apologies, I’ll rip out their _souls._ ” Dwalin said in faux shame. He mimed holding up large axes in each of his hands, glanced at each of them and then up to Ori, grinning, “This one grasps their soul, and this one keeps it.”

Across the way, in the north transept, Bilbo and Bofur watched as Ori tried not to swoon under Dwalin’s singular attention. Bilbo — suffering from anxieties about having killed his career before it even really started — had baked himself out of house and home, even while knowing full well that Dwalin had hired a caterer. Bilbo knew this, because Bofur would not stop talking about the free champagne.

Beside him, Bof knocked back another flute of spumante, and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. He grinned at Bilbo, “At least you didn’t throw anything and storm out this time, that’s a plus.”

Bilbo pursed his lips, trying to shrug his shoulders but struggled beneath the weight of his tray of cupcakes. Bofur abandoned his empty flute on a passing waitress’ tray. “I suppose,” Bilbo sulked, “I don’t know why I’m sad so about it, though. It was my idea to leave.”

“And why was that, again?” Bofur’s usual smirk had lost a bit of its roguishness, tamed when he’d shaved away the scruff for Ori’s big day.

Bilbo didn’t meet his eye, just stared straight ahead, “I don’t want to talk about it,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. Bilbo plastered on a grin, offering more sweets to guests who passed by.

“It didn’t have anything to do with a _certain_ _someone_?” Bofur asked innocently, batting his eyelashes while Bilbo gave a chocolate cupcake to a woman who stopped.

“No.”

“No one?” Bofur pestered, “Not the editor-who-shall-not-be-named?”

“Nope,” Bilbo insisted, raising up his serving tray again, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” Bofur asked, turning to face Bilbo completely, his back to the rest of the church. He whispered, “So it wouldn’t make a difference if he was walking over here right now?”

Bilbo blanched white as a sheet, and his back unconsciously tried to correct his posture. Bofur just chuckled, “Quick,” he said, and leaned in to place a short pecking kiss on Bilbo’s lips.

“What?” Bilbo spluttered, still awkward beneath his cupcakes. He could hear Thorin approaching behind them.

“Hello Bilbo, Bofur.” Thorin greeted, grinning. He had a flute of champagne in his hand, but it was full and Bilbo guessed it was simply an accessory to keep people from approaching him, “How’s paradise?”

“Thorin,” replied Bilbo, keeping his tone level but his tray of cupcakes high, “What do you want?”

Thorin looked him over, the silver platter in his hands, “I’ll tell you what I don’t want,” he said, pointing to the sweets, “I don’t want cupcakes. You baked these?”

Bilbo ground his teeth, “Storebought.”

“Oh, really?” he hummed, unconvinced.

“Mm.” Bilbo murmured in reply, his lips pressed together with repressed aggression.

Thorin grinned at him, huffing, and then looked over to Bofur, “I actually came over to speak with Mr. Urskine, if I may.”

Bofur, who had so far been standing to the side sipping another full glass of champagne (which he had somehow procured in the last two minutes), suddenly perked up at the mention of his name, “Oh yes?” he replied to Thorin. It had been some time since Bilbo’s editor had even acknowledged his existence. “How can I be of service?”

Thorin moved closer to him, himself a few inches taller than Bofur, who had to look up a bit to meet his eyes (this of course was nothing compared to Bilbo, who stood almost a full head shorter than the both of them). “I was simply wondering, how the screenwriting business is treating you? Not thinking of switching over to our side?”

Bofur laughed, “No, no, I’m working on a new script now, as a matter of fact. They’re treating me quite well over on _my_ side. Though you know what they say about fences and green grass. I just met a colleague of yours, actually. Brown was his name, gave me his business card.”

Thorin nodded jovially in return, and Bilbo squinted his eyes as he watched the both of them. It wasn't like Thorin to make jovial small talk. Or _any_ kind of small talk, for that matter. He hated both awkward and familiar small talk in equal measure.

“Good for you, then.” Thorin smiled, gripping Bofur on the shoulder. He lifted his glass of champagne to his lips, “Glad to know Bilbo’s friendship is gaining you connections.”

Bofur tilted his head to the side, like he’d heard Thorin wrong, “‘Scuse me?”

Thorin lowered the spumante, holding it gently between both of his hands, “Well, the grass is greener, as you say. Best sow your oats now. While you can.” He vaguely gestured to the crowd around them.

Bofur looked agitated, squinting his eyes. More than anything, he looked confused, “I’m quite happy with my work. And I’m not here for any reason other than supporting my friends. _Ori_ and his book. For Bilbo.”

“And how is _Bilbo’s_ book by the way?” Thorin looked pointedly over at Bilbo, where he was brewing between them, refraining from interjecting, “He hasn’t let me read any of it yet. But I’m sure, being his friend, you’ve no doubt discussed it with him.”

“Bilbo’s work is his own, we don’t discuss it much,” Bofur gritted through his teeth.

Thorin tilted his head, “You mean-”

Bilbo finally pulled at Thorin’s arm, seething, forcing his editor to turn and face him, “Okay." He chuckled darkly, "Stop it now.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow, looking down at him, “Pardon?” he asked, lackadaisical.

Bilbo was astounded by Thorin’s willful ignorance. But he stood his ground, moving in front of Bofur, shielding him— defending him. Defending himself. He stepped into Thorin’s space and stared up at him, “Did you miss the part where you were being a hypocritical arsehole? I know you don’t like Bofur but—”

“Who said I don’t like Bofur?” Thorin asked, seemingly affronted, “And please enlighten me, how am I being a hypocrite?”

“Oh please, Thorin! Trying to say Bofur is using me? That’s _rich_ coming from you.” Bilbo’s voiced was getting louder, more aggressive, echoing through the vaulted ceiling. Loud enough to turn heads. Aggressive enough that it was clear he’d lost his patience. “And it is common knowledge, you never liked him!”

“Oh, and I wonder why that was?” Thorin yelled back. Something about his disposition had changed: he had begun sarcastic, comical, jabbing. Now he was humorless, earnest, his bribes stinging deep but unskillfully. He was unsteady, impromptu. Too truthful to be premeditated. They were gaining attention. “It was obvious from the moment I met him. He is a lying, talentless hack without a brain or a conscience—”

“Oh shut up, Thorin!” Bilbo voice was piercing, self-righteous.

Thorin didn’t stop, just picked up momentum as he pressed further, needling, “—whose writing career tanked around the year two-thousand and five. It’s clear to everyone! He doesn’t give a damn about _you_ and he clearly doesn’t give a damn about your novel!”

Bilbo grinned and passed Bofur the tray of cupcakes. And then he punched Thorin in the face.

 

 

 

Thorin came to in one of the small alcoves of the cathedral, sitting in a window seat with Bilbo pressing a cold pack to his face while he scowled down at him. They were shielded off from the rest of the party by a bouquet of flowers settled on a tall table beside them; it shaded them and provided privacy. Through the blood clotting his nose, Thorin could still smell the peonies and chrysanthemum and the freshness of Bilbo’s cologne.

When he began to squirm beneath the chill of the ice pack, Bilbo moved it away from his face, and looked like he was repressing a sadistic grin. Thorin groaned, rumbling, pinching the bridge of his nose and attempting to staunch the last of the blood flow.

Bilbo clicked his tongue. “Look,” he said, breaking the silence and lowering the ice to his lap, looking Thorin in the eyes, “I’m sorry I punched you even though you did deserve it.”

Thorin grunted, ruffled and trying to fix the collar on his jacket, “You caught me a bit off guard. Usually I don’t go down after the first punch… Usually it’s the third or fourth.”

“Mm. Mhm.” Bilbo hummed, that cold grin still playing at his lips, “Well you went down pretty fast, and I am a lot smaller than you, so.”

“Wait.” Thorin blinked then, distracted, “How did I get over here? We were in the main atrium.”

“Oh, I made Bofur help drag you over.” Bilbo said plainly, head tilting. Thorin dropped his back against the stained glass window with a thud and a groan, his eyes closing. Bilbo laughed, “What is it now? Did I bruise your big ego that badly?”

Thorin opened one eye to look down at him. “No, just my pride,” he said, but he was grinning too. They shared a small laugh. The moment passed quickly though, as Thorin sobered and sat up straight again, readjusting himself in the window seat beside Bilbo. It only did so much for his appearance; dried blood from Thorin’s nose was caked around his nostrils and clotted in the beginnings of his facial hair. Still, he shook himself, trying to clear his head.

“Look Bilbo,” Thorin said quietly, turning as well as he could to face him. Their knees knocked together. “There’s something I need to tell you.” He screwed his eyes shut for a moment, then forced himself to meet Bilbo’s eyes as he rambled softly, “Something I never told you— haven’t hold you. I— _Happy Ending_ , at the end, when things became, _you know_ … with us…”

Bilbo nodded in response, his eyes large and dark in the shadow of the alcove. The stained glass window cast different colors over his cheeks. His gaze continually shifted down to Thorin’s lips, watching his mouth as he spoke.

“And the title,” Thorin kept saying, and swallowed as his voice began to peter out awkwardly, “I never told you. The book... It’s good.”

Bilbo eyes squinted, his gaze dropping to his hands where the ice pack was covered in cold beads of condensation. “So that’s it?” he said, “That’s what you had to say? _It’s good._ ”

“No, no. _No_.” Thorin was hasty to say, “That’s not what I meant, I… I...”

Bilbo wanted Thorin to apologize. Wanted Thorin to say he was sorry for all the bullshit and confusion and the giant mess he’d made. Wanted Thorin to give him a good reason to be forgiven. A good enough reason that Bilbo could forgive himself for already granting Thorin his absolution.

Of course Bilbo forgave him, because he’s Thorin. And Bilbo always forgave him. Because Bilbo could admit he loved him, even though he couldn’t help it. Even though he might have wished he didn’t. But he looked at Thorin, who was strong and beautiful and maybe deranged. But he was someone with passion and a light in his eyes and his heart was too big to even be real. And he loved literature and he loved Bilbo’s book enough to publish it. And wasn’t that enough?

And then Bilbo did maybe the stupidest most wonderful lunatic thing he’d ever done in his life. He leaned in and kissed Thorin.

And Thorin kissed him back.

Thorin closed his eyes and kissed him, and was left with Bilbo’s lips against his and his own punishing thoughts. Of Bilbo’s novel and the brilliance of it and happy endings and the way Thorin just wanted to shout at him sometimes but also wanted to smooth a hand through Bilbo’s curls and hold him close. Forever breathe him in. Thorin exhaled against Bilbo’s lips, trying to put it into words. He pulled away for a moment and sighed, trying to explain it all to Bilbo, he murmured, “It’s like the saddest music I’ve ever heard.”

Thorin leaned in to kiss him again. Even though a second later, Bilbo maybe wished he hadn’t. A second later he hated himself for enjoying it and letting them linger there against each other. He hated himself because he knew better, because Thorin had blood clotting his nose and he was difficult and clearly deranged.

Thorin felt Bilbo flinch. Thorin felt him move away. “What,” Bilbo murmured, “what are we doing?”

“Kissing or?” Thorin didn’t finish that thought. Bilbo wished he had.

“Me kissing you. _You_ kissing me,” something in his voice was aggravated, “ _You_ picking a fight with Bofur. Both, everything! You being a complete idiot all the time! The ‘sad music' crap and all this buttering me up.”

Thorin’s throat caught, “Bilbo-”

“No. What are you up to? Why would you do all this unless… unless,” he paused. And then his mouth popped open, “ _Oh_ , _I know why._ You want me to sign another book deal with you! Doing all this bullshit so I stay!”

The inaccuracy of Bilbo’s logic released an inhuman burst of laughter out of Thorin, who almost doubled over, knocking into Bilbo’s side as he grabbed at his knee for support. He winced for a moment, the bump on his head still tender. Undistracted by Bilbo’s kisses, he felt the beginnings of a headache coming on.

Bilbo didn’t stop his tirade, “Well, Thorin Oakenshield if you can hear me through the obvious concussion, then _pay attention_ because that is _never_ going to happen!”

Thorin stopped snickering long enough to gape, “I have a concussion?”

“Oh, piss off.” Bilbo groused, pushing roughly at Thorin’s shoulder, “Just go away.”

With a dejected huff, Thorin pulled himself up. He’d only made it a foot down the corridor before turning back, eyes suddenly dark and stormy, “You know what? You really think I’d want you back?” He leaned down into Bilbo’s face, directly meeting his eyes, “ _Why?_ You were manic at the best of times, sporadic in your writing— I couldn’t seem to get a consistent chapter out of you if I tried! And when you’re working, your words were more real to you than I was.”

Thorin paused, licked his lips, still red from kissing, “So no, Bilbo. I do not want you back.”

I do not want you back.

Thorin wished he could have stormed out of the bloody church, leaving Bilbo and the kiss of his lips behind. But he couldn’t. He was still there on business; he had a responsibility to Ori and to _Khazâd_ to finish out the night and supervise when it ended. He washed the blood away from his face and waited for everyone to go. When the last guests had left (both of Ori’s brothers, who were equally terrifying in their own unique rights), and Thorin managed to pull Dwalin away from Ori’s side where the two of them had been talking in hushed tones in an alcove of their own (certainly vomit-level cute, but Thorin needed Dwalin for something actually important), the two of them made their way out to Thorin’s car, idling in the carpark. The sun had set and it was dark.

“Fact is,” Dwalin said plainly, reclining in the passenger’s seat, “you’re not a dog killer. Haven’t got it in you. Underneath all the psychotic plant kidnapping crap, you do actually care about him.”

He couldn’t meet Dwalin’s gaze, just let the headlights of cars passing by wash over him. His eyes were never allowed the time to adjust properly, and white spots muddled his vision. The headache had developed into a steady throbbing pain. Thorin closed his eyes, leaning back in the driver’s seat, and sighed.

“I’m going to tell him everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Cough cough Ori DID NOT name his book after Dwalin wink wink**)
> 
> How do you all feel about the last name Urskine for Bofur, Bifur and Bombur? I tried to make it a play on Erskine, using the suffix -kin for family. A lot of people use -son for the dwarves and I already used it for the Ri’s (Ori Rison.. get it? get it?) so I wanted to try something different. I think I like it.
> 
> If you want some extra content for this fic ~~ I made a playlist that you can listen to here: http://8tracks.com/thedamnstars/this-is-how-we-met  
> There’s also a pinterest board for my visual inspiration: https://www.pinterest.com/thedamnstars/lit-this-is-how-we-met/  
> Or you could just come hang out with me on tumblr too @thedamnstars


	7. undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> folks… i didn't realize how far this would stray into Crack territory but… we’re here. it's crazy. i'm shook.

Bilbo kissed Ori on the cheek before he left with Bofur. He took a taxi home by himself, and the cabbie turned the windshield wipers on halfway through the drive when it started to rain. Bilbo leaned his forehead against the cold windowpane and touched his parted lips. He chastised himself for enjoying the way they stung.

The door to their flat closed with a thud that echoed through the living room and down the corridor. Ori was still out — gone to his brother’s for the night, celebratory dinner. Bilbo leaned back against the painted wood. It seemed a lot emptier without Ori here, more hollow. The air felt staticky. Bilbo’s skin felt paper thin. His lips stung, dry where he kept biting at them. Where Thorin had kissed at them.

Bilbo treated himself to a long, luxuriously hot shower, let the steam subdue him into relaxation. He washed his hair and avoided thinking entirely. He didn’t think about Thorin or kissing Thorin or Thorin’s lips or yelling at Thorin or Thorin yelling at him. He didn’t think about how he regretted not putting a hand in Thorin’s hair to see how it felt. He regretted not holding him. The water suddenly felt hotter. Oh god, don’t think about that. He shifted under the spray and washed the shampoo out of his hair and denied himself thinking about Thorin until the lights were out and he was in the privacy of his own room where he could live in pathetic regret and no one else but the darkness would know.

Bilbo shut off the water.

He’d forgotten his towel on the hook in his bedroom, and grumbled as he stepped out of the tub and onto his bathmat. The mirror was fogged up and the air was hot and Bilbo dripped water onto the floor. He wiped the condensation away from the glass and looked at himself, his round little self, hardly the stuff of legend. He shook the water off as well as he could, resigned to walk across the apartment dripping and naked until he could get to his room.

The living room air was cold on his skin and Bilbo thought about writing. The words still didn’t come any easier, there was still a block. He wished he could work. Without words, one might as well be dead. He sighed, dripping onto the carpet in his living room in the harsh shadow of the lamps. He opened up the document on his computer and scrolled over the last chapter he’d written. The rest of the novel was stacked on the side of Bilbo desk, over one hundred loose pages that he’d printed out in a crazed fit of uninspiration. Avoiding any further dripping onto the manuscript or his laptop, Bilbo pressed _Print_ on Chapter 36 and moved away from his desk, into the kitchen. Rivulets of water trickled down his bare back.

He poured himself a large glass of wine, a treat since he’d had barely any champagne at Ori’s party. Bilbo drank it down and thought about Bofur and the fight, and the business card Bof had gotten from Radagast Brown. The same Radagast Brown who, according to Gandalf, wrote starkers.

Ori wouldn’t be home until tomorrow. What the hell.

Since Bilbo was trying to write, he baked instead. It couldn’t hurt, especially since he’d managed to give away all of the cupcakes at the party. When his meringues were in the oven, and the flat began to smell like sugar, Bilbo sat at his desk and drank his wine and his bare bum was shocked by the cold of his desk chair.

His hair dried back into its free curls and Bilbo enjoyed his private little thrill of sitting nude in the middle of his living room. Well, it was at least freeing, even if he got no work done. He sat in front of the glow of his computer screen, with a legal pad in front of him on the desk, pen poised in one hand and his glass of wine in the other. Liquid creativity.

He’d ended up writing nothing, simply doodling in the corners of his notebook, thinking about his little adventurers. They were, each of them, lovely little creatures, their leader especially. He was a proud thing of noble stock: hilariously petty, stubborn to a fault, piercing blue eyes, self righteous, coarse black facial hair, and he was quite tall even for— Bilbo took a long drink. Right.

His doorbell rang, a high chime that cut through the silence of the flat.

_Shit_ , Bilbo looked down at his nakedness. He put down his wine and padded over to the door, careful to not let the floor creak beneath his feet. Maybe they would just go away if he didn’t answer. Through the peephole Bilbo spied Thorin’s forehead, leaning forward and practically pressed up against the door like he was trying to listen to the goings-on inside. He pulled back and rang again.

“Bilbo!” Thorin called, raising his voice so it echoed through the door.

“ _Shit_ ,” Bilbo cursed, flinching when he realized he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. His naked skin went hot and clammy, flushing violently.

“Bilbo. I know you’re in there,” Thorin stepped back and put his hands on his hips. His hair was wet and his glasses were foggy, like he’d just come in from the rain. Thorin’s voice was calm, but it was pleading, “Please, just open the door.”

Bilbo closed his eyes shut, knocked his head against the cold wood and shouted, tiredly, “Just go away!”

Thorin’s voice was muffled through the door, “I’ve got to talk to you.”

Bilbo was about to shout some obscenity back at him when the house phone rang. “Hold on a minute!” Bilbo called, leaving Thorin out in the hallway. The phone trilled again and Bilbo dashed across the room to pick it up, “Hello?” he answered, shiver from the cold running down his arms, “Ori?”

“ _Hello!_ ” shrilled an automated voice on the other end, “ _You need to hear about our great deals on home insurance!_ ”

Thorin knocked at the door, not to be ignored. Bilbo rolled his eyes, about to hang up the phone, when the smoke alarm started shrieking and Bilbo noticed the distinct smell of burning meringue and aluminium. In his ear, the automated voice said, “ _Have you ever thought of what would happen if your house caught fire?_ ”

“No, no, no shit _shit shit!_ ” Bilbo cried, dropping the phone and racing over to the oven. The alarm kept blaring and Bilbo couldn’t hear Thorin shouting his name through the door, couldn’t even hear himself think over the ridiculous beeping as he tried to save his murienges from a certain, bloody death. They were charred and black when Bilbo pulled them out, the burnt tang of sugar in his nostrils.

“Buggering hell!” Bilbo yelled when the tray burned his hand through the oven mitt, “Shit!” The meringues were smoking and only aggravated the alarm even more. Bilbo tried fanning them, dispersing the smoke. He tried rushing over to the living room to open a window, but ran right into Thorin who was darting down the hall with Bilbo’s spare key in his hand.

“Bilbo! Are you alri—” Thorin yelled, frantic. “Oh.” he choked, halting mid stride in the middle of Bilbo’s hallway, naked Bilbo’s hallway because Bilbo was naked. He was naked. Holy shit Bilbo was—

“Stop looking!” Bilbo shouted, stuttering, holding the tray of smoking meringues up to his chest in a natural reflex, trying to conserve at least some of his manhood. His whole body red and flushed with embarrassment. His whole body.

“Right. Sorry,” Thorin dropped his gaze and turned around quickly, closing the door he’d thrown open in his haste to get inside. With his back still turned, Thorin shouted over the smoke detector, “You get dressed, if you want! I’ll deal with the alarm!”

Bilbo abandoned the burning tray on the stovetop. “Keep your eyes closed!” he shouted. Passing behind Thorin’s back to make it to his bedroom, he yelled over the sound of the alarm, “Don’t turn around!”

When the door to his bedroom clicked closed, Bilbo wasn’t quite sure whether to laugh or die. He settled on slapping a hand over his face, and realized that it was still covered by the warm oven mitt and he lowered it again, leaning back against the door in defeat. Ridiculous. This would only happen to him. Out in the kitchen, the alarm turned off. Standing straight again, Bilbo reached for the bathrobe hanging on the back of his door.

“What are you even doing here?” Bilbo asked through the door, loud enough for Thorin to hear. There was still a ringing in his ears. He adjusted his bathrobe and pulled the belt tight around his waist, opening the door again to face Thorin, who was standing in the hallway looking as out of sorts as Bilbo felt.

“I needed to talk to you,” Thorin exhaled, resigned, starting for the living room with Bilbo trailing behind him. Thorin stopped short at the end of the hall, and Bilbo almost bumped into him. He stared at Bilbo’s desk and then looked back at Bilbo, pointing, “Is that my novel?”

They held each other’s gaze for a heated moment, before both jumping for the manuscript. Thorin got to it first, blocking the way with his hips and height, knocking Bilbo out of the way before grabbing at the pages and running away with them.

“Hey!” Bilbo shouted, tightening his robe before chasing after Thorin, “Give me back my novel!”

Thorin dashed across the flat, towards Ori’s bedroom and the bathroom. Holding the loose papers to his chest, he yelled, “It’s my novel, I’m going to read it!”

“It isn’t finished yet, give it back!” Bilbo whinged, running after him, his naked feet smacking against the floorboards.

Thorin was cut off at the end of the hall, not daring to enter Ori’s bedroom. “Fine,” he huffed, backed up against the door to the bathroom, shielding the manuscript behind his back. He was a bit out off breath, leaning back against the doorjamb. With one hand, he removed the novel from behind his back and offered it to Bilbo, “Here.”

Bilbo sniffed, “Thank you. Good to know you can act like an actual adult. Occasionally.” He thumbed through the manuscript, realizing too late that he was light on pages. “Hey, where’s the rest of it?”

Tauntingly, Thorin pulled the remainder of the loose manuscript from behind his back, before rushing into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. Bilbo threw himself up against the wood, pounded loudly, yelling, “Come out of there, you dick!”

“It’s been three weeks—” Thorin yelled back, his voice muffled by the barrier of the door and Bilbo’s relentless knocking, “I need to read the damn manuscript!”

Bilbo paused his knocking to grimace at the blank door, “It’s been two weeks, first of all,” he said, hands on his hips, “And second, I told you that you’d get it when I finished. You need to learn patience!”

Thorin growled, “I’ve been patient enough.”

“Give me back my novel!” Bilbo pounded, harder.

 

Twenty minutes of agonizing silence later, the silver handle wobbled and Bilbo watched the door swing open. Thorin stood in the archway, the manuscript pages rolled up tight in his hand. The glow from the bathroom lit up the crown of Thorin’s dark head.

Bilbo frowned. “I can’t believe you,” he said coarsely, arms crossed over his chest, “Even you.”

He opened his mouth again, and promptly closed it. Thorin just looked down at him, watching. Bilbo bit his lip, rocked on his feet, fell victim to his curiosity and asked, “Well, what did you think?”

Thorin stepped out of the washroom, taking his glasses from the bridge of his nose and hooking them onto the collar of his dress shirt. He grinned wanly.

“It’s just a first draft, so who can tell.” The manuscript was curled up in Thorin’s hand, and he proffered it to Bilbo like a peace offering, “But. Given that you are only a second rate author who obviously got extremely lucky with his debut, I would say this is a very good start.”

Bilbo took a step forward, looking into the dark sunken eyes of his publisher, reaching out to take the manuscript. He held it with one hand, but Thorin didn’t let go. They stood for a moment, contemplating each other. Thorin’s pupils were dilated, his usual tell veiled. Bilbo huffed and broke the silence, the corners of his mouth twitching, “Well, to the never-even-has-been owner of a third-rate publishing company, I would have to say... thank you.”

Thorin spoke quietly, like he was afraid to disturb the silence of the flat, “But naturally, I have a few notes.”

Bilbo nodded minutely, hand still on the manuscript they shared. They were still stood in the middle of the hallway. “Naturally.”

“Like,” Thorin blurted out, pulling back Bilbo’s novel to open up the first page. He pulled his glasses back on in a natural reflex, “I don’t get this opening sequence, it doesn’t make any sense to me.”

Bilbo led Thorin back into the living room while he spoke. The sun had long been gone and the room was muted into neutrals and blues and golds, the strongest light coming from behind them in Bilbo’s kitchen and a lone table lamp. A car passed by outside and momentarily lit up the back wall in an orange glow. When it disappeared, they were shrouded again by gentle shadow. Bilbo got himself comfortable on the couch.

Thorin was already deep into his commentary on the opening paragraphs, notes already in the margins that he had clearly jotted down in a rush, careful not to forget anything. He barely even looked up from the pages when he dropped down beside Bilbo on the cushion, “There’s something so great about _en media res_ , and you captured it so well last time, but it just doesn’t work here. We don’t need to know _what_ he’s doing in his hole in the ground, we need to know _who_ _he is_ , _why_ he’s there. He’s an attractive character, obviously. Lovable. But I want to know him personally before I see him in action.”

Bilbo nodded. An attractive character. Know him personally. He needed alcohol to get through this.

“Mmm, I agree,” Bilbo nodded, “Just a tick.” He got up again, going into the kitchen to open a new bottle of wine. He tossed the cork away, sure he wouldn’t need to seal it again. He went into the cupboard and got a second glass.

“It took me out of the characterization, I think,” Thorin yelled to him. He had gotten up from the couch and was pacing in circles, “You were trying to establish him as a character while also having him perform some menial task in huge detail. I was all _up there_ ,” Thorin lifted his hands above his head, displaying _up there_ , “and the action brought me back down, I wanted to stay up there.”

Bilbo giggled. Thorin did have quite a of champagne at the launch. Though that was _hours_ ago. He always was just an idiot.

“Wine?” Bilbo asked, coming back to living room with the glass and the bottle in his hands. Thorin was still standing tall in the middle of the room. Since Bilbo was in the kitchen, Thorin had seemingly toed off his shoes, which were disposed by the side of coffee table. His polka dot socks matched the blue carpet.

“Ah yes,” Thorin smiled, taking the empty wine glass from Bilbo, holding it low and allowing him to fill it with the merlot. Cheap but effective. “Your vices,” Thorin said quietly, “Still can’t edit without them?”

“ _Nope_ ,” Bilbo grinned back, popping the _p_. He was a little less than sober. But well under drunk. He poured out the glass for Thorin, pulling back the bottle with a flourish. “No sunlight either, perfect editing conditions.”

Thorin took a long drink.

“So— I get it,” Bilbo said, walking around the coffee table to look at the pages that were strewn about it. Thorin had organized by chapter. “About the characterization and all that. But he’s a boring character. Homebody type, you know. I didn’t want to spend too long on introspection this time round.” _Avoiding_ , really, was the word Bilbo was looking for.

“I don’t think he’s boring,” Thorin said simply, “He’s interesting. I wanted to know more about him, _everything_ about him immediately.”

Bilbo drank.

Thorin ranted some more about his thoughts on Bilbo’s characterization, of what was basically a thinly veiled caricature of Bilbo himself. Bilbo drank. He tried to pay attention, he really did, because it would probably come in handy later when he was supposed to be rewriting the damn chapter. But Thorin had moved from standing across from Bilbo, to standing behind Bilbo’s desk chair, to Bilbo’s record collection in the corner. And maybe it was the wine — it was definitely the wine — but he started noticing all those things about Thorin which he had told himself to not notice. The simple things he did, and the ways he did them. That his hands were strong, and his face in the cool shadow of the living room looked more tired than normal, but the alcohol seemed to be giving some of his color back.

Thorin forgot his glass on the desk and moved back over to to sofa. As he dropped back onto the cushion, he stole Bilbo's wine glass from his fingers and drank from it, grinning. He looked up at Bilbo expectantly, like he was anticipating that Bilbo say something inflammatory or accusatory, as was his wont of late.

And then Bilbo remembered this wasn’t normal for them; sitting around drinking wine in Bilbo’s flat, working together and editing together like it was normal. For the past six months Bilbo had tried his damnedest to avoid Thorin entirely. Even when they were working together, they never did it in their homes, it was either at _Khazâd_ or Thorin’s cafe, or they went out to some mutually decided upon restaurant that they’d never been to before but both wanted to try out. Thorin being here, working with him again — it was frighteningly intimate. Bilbo was standing in front of Thorin in his bathrobe, arms crossed over his chest, feeling more naked than he ever had in his entire life. The warmth that had grown in his chest from the buzz of the alcohol quickly and suddenly traveled down to his gut, where it began to fester hotly. Bilbo caught himself for unabashedly staring and looked away hastily, only noticing too late that Thorin had been watching him too. He shifted between his feet, where he stood on the carpet in front of Thorin. He felt his cheeks go red, the nakedness of his legs too much on display.

Thorin looked at him. It was a different sort of look than Bilbo was used to. Thorin usually looked at him with a constant gaze of mild confusion, or irritation, or more recently, anger. But this was an intent look. One that was broken and full of things unsaid. There were things they didn’t talk about. Heated things, looks they didn’t share. And Bilbo could think back and remember, occasions over Thorin’s office desk when looks would go remiss. These looks, intent and wanting. Bilbo had taken them for granted.

Thorin looked at him, lips slack and eyes electric, and refused to look away.

He rose, silently, from the cushions, leaving their shared glass of wine on the slip of wood floor between the sofa and the carpet. He stood, and took a small determined step to close the space between them. Quite suddenly, Thorin took Bilbo's face between his hands, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i always feel like i promise to have another chapter soon but it's been how many months... anyways


	8. undress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They heard my heart for miles /  
> The air inside /  
> Was seeping out /  
> In silent shout /  
> It crumpled in my chest /  
> Let's undress/  
> -undone,undress. Marika Hackman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this happened...

Bilbo startled back for a moment, fixed between pushing Thorin away and pulling endlessly closer. Thorin, whose lips weren’t soft like they had been only a few hours ago — they were crushing and insistent. Thorin, whose lips tasted of red wine instead of champagne — and Bilbo could only think he himself tasted of desperation.

He desperately longed for Thorin’s touch, clinging onto Thorin’s arms as he staggered back. Bilbo reveled in the way Thorin’s lips pressed heavily over his, biting and insistent. He parted his lips, conceding to greed, and kissed back.

They pressed together smoothly, and Bilbo could smell the stale and tang of Thorin’s shirt, of wine and tobacco, like he’d been sitting in his car before he came here — the one caked in smoke residue from when he used to smoke cigarettes.

Bilbo broke away after a long minute, which made him pant and desperate for air. He kept his gaze low and stared at the lips he’d first kissed only a handful of hours ago. It felt like an eternity ago. He felt fixed on the reddened state of those lips, mottled and kiss-bitten. He looked up at Thorin’s eyes, where he was contemplating Bilbo with a certain transparent interest. His eyes seemed to crinkle around the edges. He had crow’s feet when he smiled. They were dark, and glossy and full.

Thorin lowered his head with a small smile, surprisingly gentle, and torturously nosed his way across Bilbo’s pink cheek to chase his lips again.

Their lips grazed each other, and Thorin moved languidly in order to coax more kisses from Bilbo’s lips. Thorin cradled his cheek in a large hand, pressing little wanting circles into the skin with his thumb. Bilbo felt Thorin’s other hand skate up the back of his neck, carding into his low curls and finding a place there to pull gently, gathering up the strands between his fingers. It was a light pressure that sent a shot of heat through Bilbo; it traced down his spine like fingertips, and lodged itself below his stomach.

Thorin’s beard scratched his skin, a tease as they kissed feverishly. Bilbo played at the fabric of his dress shirt, pulling at it with vague intent, as Thorin’s kisses distracted him from any direct objective besides _hot_ and _Thorin_ and _now_. The hem had become mussed in his drunken fumblings around the flat, and Bilbo heedlessly rushed to free it properly from the trapping of his belt.

Thorin’s roaming hands seemed to find their own path, one heated lick of Bilbo’s tongue setting them on an inflamed search for his waist — the flimsiness of his robe — freeing themselves from the curling hair to trace down, and pull their bodies closer.

Bilbo wasn’t drunk but he certainly wasn’t sober and his mind was clouded with thoughts of Thorin’s tongue, which in Bilbo’s opinion was quite talented and lovely. As were his hands, and his thighs, which were large and muscular. Thorin took a beseeching step forward and Bilbo could feel them moving against him.

Pressing a wide leg between Bilbo’s, Thorin's hand on his hip tightening with heated intent. Their arms brushed against one another, Bilbo finally managing to pull the hem completely free from Thorin’s belt. It hung unkempt and wrinkled from Thorin’s body and Bilbo took the opportunity to slide his hands against the naked skin. His cold hands made Thorin jump, muscles flexing under Bilbo’s searching hands, and gooseflesh rose in their wake. They splayed against his body, and Thorin suffered the heat of his growing cock as well as he could, distracting himself from the weight in his stomach and the tightening of his groin by making discontent little sounds each time Bilbo moved his lips away from him; Bilbo giggled each time Thorin made the little whimpering sound, and it pleased him to hear Bilbo laugh.

Quite impulsively, Bilbo’s hand traveled down Thorin’s flank, abandoning the unclothed skin of his back to cover Thorin’s clothed erection. A low, embarrassingly simpering noise escaped Thorin’s mouth, and the heat of Bilbo’s tortuous fingers reached him beneath the barriers of fabric. Thorin felt himself rubbing against the inside of his briefs, and desperately, he pressed himself against Bilbo, hiding his face in the bend of Bilbo’s shoulder before he did something truly embarrassing.

Leaning close, Thorin could hear Bilbo’s labored breathing; his hand tight and making small, furtive movements against the front of Thorin’s trousers. Against Bilbo’s ear, Thorin breathed, “Bedroom?”

Bilbo’s answer came in a hushed breath, “Yes,” he said, “yes.”

And in one swift motion, Thorin pushed Bilbo against the arm of the sofa, forcing Bilbo’s knees to buckle as he held onto the backs of his thighs. Keeping this momentum, Thorin gathered hold of his legs as Bilbo clasped his ankles behind Thorin’s back. Bilbo's bathrobe, which has so far done a terrible job of protecting his modesty, was now completely useless. Now, as it was, trussed up lamely against Bilbo's waist, the only thing it was good for was driving Thorin mad. The soft fabric exposed Bilbo's thighs and was now loose enough to show the beginnings of his alabaster chest. His skin was dusted with just-barely visible blonde hairs. But the bloody thing still had the audacity to cover Bilbo's erection. Thorin was going mad. 

He stood straight, picking Bilbo up from the cushion, and caught his mouth again. With gravity keeping Bilbo pressed so close, Thorin cock thrust firmly against his bum, and they both let out low breathy moans. Bilbo's hardness, now barely hidden by his robe, pressed against Thorin. He would have had to strain to see it properly, but it was rigid and distinct, and Bilbo was unconsciously trying to find friction against Thorin's body. 

“Hallway,” Bilbo gasped, reminding him, “behind you.”

“I know the way,  _ghivashel,"_  Thorin said, letting out a breathy laugh, "So eager."

“Well yes,” Bilbo said sliding his arms to loop around Thorin’s neck. Thorin bowed his head, leaning down to meet again. His hands tightened around Bilbo’s waist.

Stepping back from the sofa, Thorin bucked Bilbo in his arms, hitching him to sit higher on his waist. Bilbo’s face was above his now, and he leaned up to kiss him. Keening, breathless, Bilbo kissed him back, “Bed,” he said, “now.”

Thorin nodded. They kept their mouths close as Thorin walked them down the hall, breath mingling heavily between them. When they reached the door to Bilbo’s bedroom, Thorin pushed it open with his back, not bothering to attempt to turn on a light before putting Bilbo down on the bed and crawling to lean over him. 

Bilbo had pressed himself up against his pillows, and was breathing heavily. Bilbo’s robe had come completely undone, the sleeves hanging around his elbows while the rest pooled about his back. What little light there was, coming in from the hallway, cast a warm glow across his skin and Thorin could see the flush that covered his entire body. He was hard, and pearly fluid ran down the head of his cock. 

Bilbo's skin was separated from him only by the layer of Thorin’s clothing. He moved to cover Bilbo completely, and a blistering torrent of gooseflesh rose on his skin. When Thorin’s tongue darted out, meeting Bilbo’s with renewed fervor, Bilbo slid the full flat of his hand against Thorin’s arse and caressed admiringly, appreciatively. They kissed for long, merciful minutes, letting the jut of their hips press together flirtingly.

There was a raspiness to Thorin’s voice, coarse noises that escaped with breathy sighs, as he shifted against Bilbo’s in short thrusting movements. Bilbo’s head fell back, pelvis impulsively pushed up to meet with Thorin’s.

Thorin's mouth suddenly departed from Bilbo's, who tried chasing him back again in search for more kisses. But Thorin did not yield to him; instead, he moved down to Bilbo's neck and attached himself there, content to nip and kiss at the sensitive skin. At the curve of his throat, Thorin sucked, and Bilbo’s head fell back on the pillows supporting him. Bilbo went hot, trembling as Thorin kissed at him. His legs shifted between Thorin’s, his toes curling. Even his knees were blushing, he was sure of it. His hips threatened to roll again Thorin’s body.

They kept silent as they kissed, nothing more than small involuntary keening sounds, which would escape of their own volition as they so fervently pulled at each other. And Bilbo was scared to ruin it, his own voice trapped in his throat, a great ball of anxiety that grew with each hot stretch of Thorin’s muscles under his hands. He dragged a hand down Thorin’s back, where it came to rest, tickling against the dip of Thorin’s spine. The fabric moved beneath Bilbo’s touch as he thumbed at it, messing with hem of Thorin’s trousers. His fingers played there at the edge, teasing and hot. When they moved to the fastenings along the front, Thorin felt the air leave him in one halting breath.

Their lips parted and they rested against each other for a moment, as Bilbo began to undo the button. Thorin breathed heavily, his face hovering over Bilbo’s. His breaths tickled the hair resting against Bilbo’s forehead, and with each exhale from Thorin, the wispy curls rose with them.

The sighs Thorin let out again him were deafening, he couldn't hear anything else. It was Thorin's lips, Thorin's sighs, Thorin’s touch as his hand traveled down Bilbo's flank, to the back of his thigh and _squeezed_. His voice broke in a pathetic whine that petered out, slowly turning into a moan, long and breathless. The ceiling above Bilbo spun, his head hanging back, the white heat searing the back of his eyes not enough and entirely too much.

 

 

 

 

 

The kisses were intimate, but Thorin’s eyes were deeply withdrawn, and an anxiety chewed at Bilbo, even as he writhed and grabbed at the meat of Thorin’s skin, tacky with sweat. Something in Thorin’s gaze was hidden, a light that flickered, as he rutted, that shuddered and flared. It made his eyes dance, something anxious and agonizing that he wouldn’t reveal but it made him push faster, harder, more desperate. His moans proved fevered, something frenetic reaching beneath his skin. He kissed like a greeting and a farewell.

He kissed at Bilbo’s collarbones and his chest, where it tickled Bilbo’s skin. He kissed his round stomach, which made Bilbo’s breath hitch. Thorin bit at Bilbo’s skin, and moving lower still, made a mark at his hip. When it was bruising and red, and Bilbo could do nothing but whimper, he moved lower still, and delighted in watching Bilbo shudder against the pillows.

Bilbo felt as though his stomach was sinking, further and further into the mattress when Thorin licked at his cock; as though he were falling into a deep pit. It was black, like the void space behind his eyelids— head thrown back, toes curling, fingers grappling. His focus blurred around the edges, fuzzy like wine, and hot like skin.

He felt dizzy. He moaned, “Thorin—”

His stomach coiled, folding in on itself, and Bilbo’s began drawing short, shuddering breaths that wracked his whole body. The fingers that snaked through Thorin’s hair tightened around the black strands, pulling unconsciously at the roots.

Below, Thorin almost winced, the smarting at his scalp intensifying as Bilbo writhed. His body seemed to curl up on itself, trying to pull Thorin with it. Gracelessly, Thorin licked up Bilbo’s cock again, suckling the head and lingering there for a moment, to let Bilbo calm down again. His skin was alive, electrified, the deep thrumming pulse of his heartbeat echoing through his limbs. Thorin could feel it in his grip of Bilbo’s thigh.

His hips were wide and plump, and after Bilbo came, Thorin found home in the space where the hipbone met flesh. Licking there made Bilbo twitch, and so Thorin set about marking it, making the skin sensitive and red. When he rose up again, the skin was dark like wine.

He kissed it gently.

“Come up here,” Bilbo beckoned, softly. It wasn’t demanding, but still, Thorin obeyed.

He kissed his way back up Bilbo's throat, and reaching his lips again, settled on the mattress at Bilbo’s side. Bilbo’s muscles were lazy, but still he beckoned Thorin closer. Thorin moved to rest astride him, grasping one hand in through the curls of Bilbo’s hair, the other snaking around his back in the space between the mattress, pulling him up, closer.

“Thorin,” Bilbo hummed, trying to lean up a bit, “Thorin— ”

His hands are large compared to Bilbo's, his palm covering the whole of Bilbo's round thigh. His touch was strong, absolute.

“Condoms,” Bilbo said, “left drawer.”

 

 

 

 

Relief came in Thorin’s persistent touch, slick and hot and calculated. White heat shot into Bilbo’s back, and he arched, his bum pushing down, aching for more. He wanted it to last. He wanted it to last. He wanted him to stay.

Bilbo chanted his name like a mantra, like it was the only thing he knew anymore. Skin, flesh, kiss, touch, Thorin. Thorin. Thorin. Thorin. “ _Thorin_ ,” Bilbo moaned, pressing towards him faster, harder, more. “Thorin—” 

He wanted him to stay.

 

 

 

 

 

Thorin rested on top of him, adjusting so that his weight balanced between Bilbo's soft chest and the mattress. Bilbo hummed, lacing his fingers through the strands of Thorin’s hair. He kept silent now. Thorin looked like he was still getting himself comfortable, not looking in any rush to get out of bed in search for his pants. A few minutes before gathering himself, before he left. Bilbo wouldn’t wait around for him. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

Bilbo started awake. A mobile phone was ringing.

He barely put in the effort to open his eyes, simply noticed the warmth of the body beside him, as it shifted in order to reach for the bedside table. The call connected, and Thorin’s deep rumbling voice croaked out a hello. His rich baritone echoed through the silence of the bedroom. _I was asleep, what did you want?_

Bilbo closed his eyes again, burrowing himself deep in the blankets. _No, I’m not at home..._

His sheets were warm with their mingled body heat. _What happened?_ He would have to get up and wash them later, but for now, he drifted back to sleep. _I’m coming._

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God they're gross 
> 
> So we've reached over 100 subs on this story which is just … really crazy to me. 100 individual people voluntarily signing up to read this weird ass story that I'm writing. That's wild and I'm so grateful for all of you <3
> 
> (also note: im not sure how many of you actually care to watch the movie that this is based on, but they're taking it off netflix in the USA on Jan 31, so watch it while you can because it's really good.)


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